


Water & Ash

by Sebbastia



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AU from 8 X 03, AU: I remember character arcs, AU: Jorah doesn't die, AU: Tyrion isn't a moron, All canon couples - Freeform, But mostly Jorah x Dany, F/M, Finale aftermath, Loads of people are in this, Lots of dynamics explored, Minor Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen, Multi, Season Re-Write, Show!Verse, So no one is a fucking minor yay, Will add more tags as relationships develop, With a healthy dose of Braime, season 8 fix-it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2020-05-01 17:28:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 43
Words: 162,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19182442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sebbastia/pseuds/Sebbastia
Summary: "Some act of noble note may yet be done. One more miracle is demanded of you, Melisandre of Asshai..."The Night King falls, and the war against death is won...but this is only the beginning.The song is not yet over, and with a final gift from the fire, Daenerys learns that winning and ruling are indeed very different things.A Season 8 fix-it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! It's me again, back by (vaguely) popular demand! I started writing another jorah x dany fic under the guise of a fix-it, and got so into it that this thing is basically a season 8 re-write, with a bunch of different character perspectives and relationships and shit. It is still a jorah x dany at its heart, but if you're looking for a quick fix, you're in the wrong place, as this shit's gonna be slooooow burn (but we'll get there. It'll be worth it, I promise). This show is too huge and important to me to let it lie as the writer's left it, so I've rewritten everything post-8X03 and this is the result. 
> 
> I already have 10 chapters of this written, but they need severe editing, so will be published at regular intervals. It is COMPLETELY SEPARATE from How Rare And Beautiful (so none of the AU stuff in that has happened in this one). It's still almost entirely show!verse, which means all the characters only in the books are not in this, side plots will not be mentioned, and Jorah isn't a total creep. 
> 
> If you are here for Sansa/Yara, it exists as a single chapter that can be read as a standalone; Chapter 27. Just skip there.
> 
> This one's short, but I'm feeling it out. Once again, I'm American, so sorry for any non-British spelling that I've missed.

_Alas my daughter, you do me proud._

_You glow with fire anew._

_Your weakness is human and that makes it invaluable._

_I do not begrudge you your leanings or fancies._

_Fear is for the cold, the chill brings unease._

_But the light of dawn means your fire is no longer needed._

 

_I understand, my Lord._

_I have always understood._

_At last, I must rest._

_The long night is done, and I am for the dark._

 

Her frozen fingers touch the ever-warm metal of the choker her stone is set in. She pauses in the barren wasteland of the future.

 

Not yet.

 

Some noble act of note may yet be done.

 

 _One more miracle is demanded of you, Melisandre of Asshai_.

 

The Dragon Queen is screaming. At first Melisandre thinks she is hurt. Perhaps they are amputating a limb, as she saw them doing with other wounded, trapped under mountains of their dead comrades with losing an arm or leg as the only chance of escape. On approach, the protective curl of the largest dragon seems to agree.

 

Its eyes meet hers, fire and fire, and its mighty tail moves to allow her through.

 

She is not injured. That is not her blood. She screams for the man in her arms, Melisandre realises. It is the agonised wail of grief, not fear. Perhaps the emotions are siblings rather than cousins.

 

She looks up at Melisandre as she approaches. Her eyes are wild like a wounded animal, her face is streaked with blood and grime and tears. Something cataclysmic bubbles within her, pushing against the surface, aching to erupt. Melisandre can sense it.

 

 _Perhaps it will erupt, but I will not get to see it_ , she thinks.

 

The man is dead. He is bleeding so much it is impossible to tell which wound killed him. There are holes punched through his armour and rips in his chainmail. He has taken a battering. _This cannot be the one…_

 

_He was taken by ice. This is not your Lord’s doing. He gives and takes in fire, but the Night’s Walkers are outside of his plan. They have taken someone essential in the struggle to come. In order for the chains to be broken and for fire to return to rule, we must undo the ruptures in history caused by ice’s digression. The Lord did not take him, so he will give him back._

 

The dragon will not let anyone else near. There are people calling the Dragon Queen’s name but she doesn’t listen, just looks at Melisandre through a haze of shock and agony. Melisandre kneels. She pulls the girl’s hands off her dead knight’s face.

 

“He-”

 

“He is dead.”

 

“He... _can’t_ be…”

 

Melisandre makes sure to search the depths of the Dragon Queen’s lilac eyes. So rarely is she confronted with raw, unguarded emotion that has nothing to do with her.

 

“He was important to you.” She asks her, in their shared mother tongue.

 

The Dragon Queen’s sobs return, softer and smaller, as she looks at him.

 

“He was all I had. For so long, he was all I had.” The reply comes in Valyrian too.

 

“He is important.” Melisandre affirms. She unbuckles the knight’s armour. The Dragon Queen watches, scared and sorrowful, as she examines the damage.

 

“He has lost a lot of blood.”

 

“I don’t know how he stood for so long…” In her voice there is a note that says that she knows exactly how he stood for so long.

 

Melisandre whispers to the corpse. She tells him his destiny. She thanks her Lord. She begs him for rest. She takes a last look at the strange land around her, the land that was never home, the land she will die to save, and then back at its saviour.

 

“I preach caution, Daenerys Targaryen. Mistakes cannot always be rewritten, and although one man’s life may be unequal to another in your eyes, all shall return to the fire in the end, in their own time. Nothing is meaningful. Nothing is meaningless. Use the gift of your children, your bloodline, and this final gift, to forge steel, not melt flesh.”

 

The Dragon Queen doesn’t understand, she can see that in her face. Melisandre manages a smile. The dawn approaches and the rising sun calls. She reaches up to unclasp her necklace.

 

She feels her strength leave her as soon as the jewel no longer touches her skin. She feels her bones crumbling, her skin peeling, her frame bowing and slackening. She places it across the knight’s chest, the ruby directly over the wound that she now knows killed him. With the last ounce of her fast-failing strength, she utters a single word in her ancient tongue;

 

_“Dracarys.”_

 

She sees the glimmer of the ruby, the dragon turning to face her, its huge jaws opening, the glow of its breath, and the shock on its mother’s face, before the heat and the flames and the pain and the peace.

 

 _How they will sing fearful songs of you, my daughter. The Red Witch who saved the world. Now, join me, and rest_.

 

\- - -

 

Ser Davos Seaworth picks through the corpses, approaching Drogon when no one else wants to, and breathing a sigh of relief when the dragon begrudgingly unfurls to allow him and the other men to see what he has been protecting.

 

In the curl of his huge body, he shelters a sobbing Daenerys, bent over the body of Ser Jorah Mormont, a wound on his chest glowing like fire, and a pile of blackened bones beside them.

  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for such a wonderful reception! It's nice to see so many of you interested, and so I hope I deliver.
> 
> This is an AU from episode 3 of season 8, but some bits are the same, so bear with me. I will think about other pairings to explore, I just tagged the two I'm definitely focusing on, so it'd be cool to know what you guys are interested in reading about. Also, regarding Sansa and Daenerys, I'm writing this based on the season 8 tension between them, but no, they're not always going to hate each other just 'because', so I'm not really going to milk that rivalry (but it will be in here for a little while, just to warn you).
> 
> I hope in this chapter that Tyrion seems more like himself and less like whoever D&D wrote into the script in the last few seasons.

“Let me in.”

 

“Your Grace, he needs to rest.  _ You _ need to rest.”

 

“I have to see him.”  _ I have to make sure that what I saw wasn’t a dream _ .

 

“It will do no good, and you haven’t slept since the battle!”

 

“I would sleep a lot  _ easier _ if I could set my mind at ease. I will not sleep until I see him. Another direct refusal to follow orders and I will summon Grey Worm.”

 

Samwell Tarly, who she knows she has mistreated terribly for all he has done for her, quivers at the thought of her general. He very reluctantly stands aside.

 

“You mustn’t disturb him. If he is to have a chance, he must be left unjostled.”

 

She rushes past him and towards the bed. Jorah Mormont lies inert. He is propped up by pillows and his clothes have been changed for clean ones. He looks deathly pale. She lets out a desperate sigh at the sight of his chest rising and falling, albeit lightly.

 

“Has he woken?”

 

“No, your grace. He has lost a lot of blood and several vital organs were ruptured. He lives, but he is unresponsive.”

 

“When will he wake up?”

 

“It’s impossible to say. Maybe now, maybe never.” As timid as the Tarly boy is, he is always precise and pragmatic when it comes to matters of maestery, she has noticed.

 

“He  _ will _ live. He has survived everything else. He will survive this.”

 

She vaguely remembers red cloth, red hair, and red eyes. She remembers speaking Valyrian with a stranger, and then her child obeying the stranger’s orders. She remembers fire that did not burn her, but did burn the Asshai priestess.

 

It didn’t burn Ser Jorah, either.

 

She touches his chest to feel his heartbeat, and is startled by the concentrated warmth she finds there. Despite Sam’s half-uttered protests, she opens Ser Jorah’s shirt. He is heavily bandaged. Blood leaks through in several places, although the dressings look new. There is a red glow beneath the bandage across his sternum. She pulls it back to see a ruby imbedded in his chest as if it had grown there; the Red Priestess’ ruby.

 

“I...I don’t know what to do with that. I haven’t read anything that might help me.”

 

He reaches as if to stop her as she runs her fingertips over the jewel. She supposes it is quite hot. He has forgotten that heat doesn’t bother her. The smooth surface tingles against her skin, humming with power. She frowns, beginning to understand.

 

“This is what is keeping him living.”

 

“I had wondered...that is, he  _ shouldn’t _ be alive. He’s lost too much blood. I don’t even know which of his organs are still  _ working _ …”

 

“It was the Red Priestess’ final act.” She feels oddly protective of the information, but if anyone should know how he still lives despite being run through with a dozen swords, it’s the maester that will heal him once more.

 

“Ah…” He says, softly. 

 

_ I wonder why _ , she thinks.  _ Was it pity? Kindness? Does Ser Jorah have a larger role to play? _

 

It will be difficult to play it from his sickbed, but Daenerys contemplates confining him to it so that he’s never in danger again, so she never has to worry, never has to lose him, again. Perhaps she will have to leave him behind when she marches on King’s Landing. Perhaps the real battle has been won and killing Cersei and scattering her armies will take no time. Perhaps he will stand once more when she has the throne and they can get on with ruling as they’ve always wanted to.

 

_ When I take the Seven Kingdoms, I need you by my side. _

 

_ Stay with me, my bear, I am not done with you yet. _

 

Samwell Tarly applies salve to the smaller wounds on his arms and stokes the fire, working around Daenerys as she sits with her knight, her thumbs running along the calluses of his hand, feeling the small but certain warmth, the pulse of life, under his skin. He lives, and will live. That is all she can ask for, and now her mind must turn to other things.

 

When she leaves, the pull of her own bed too much to ignore, she turns to the young maester.

 

“If he wakes, come and find me immediately. I don’t care what hour it is. Interrupt whatever I am doing. I would speak with him.”

 

“Of course, your grace.”

 

“And thank you, Sam. You have done so much for him already. I am forever in your debt.”

 

He nods bashfully. “I’ll do whatever I can.”

 

\- - -

 

Winterfell is in disarray. Whole courtyards are out of use, stone twisted and warped by the icy breath of Viserion, bodies hanging from the battlements, buried under rubble, skewered on pikes and broken ceiling beams. It will take years to rebuild, but they should be glad they are here to see it smoulder and fizzle. The survivors, weary and traumatised, douse the last fires and carry whatever wounded still live to the upper rooms. Anyone with any herbal knowledge is on hand to help to try and add more to the numbers of the still-living.

 

Sansa Stark looks at the broken body before her. Her throat is tight, her jaw set, her eyes prickling, but she cannot cry. Not yet. She will in the privacy of her own room. He deserves to be mourned, and she doesn’t think she could stop the tears even if she wanted to.

 

“Send word to his sister in the Iron Islands.” She tells the Northman preparing him for the pyre. “Gentle words. He is a hero this day.”

 

“Of course, milady.”

 

_ Thank you, Theon. I forgive you, and I am so grateful _ .

 

She remembers his bright young face, eating his meals between Jon and Robb. She remembers when he laughed at her for getting the name of a piece of armour wrong. She remembers him watching the parlour maids with interest, stoking the fire when she pulled her furs closer, running alongside Lady when they took the pups hunting, squinting at the direwolves she’d embroidered on the handkerchief she showed him and her brother, him throwing Bran over his shoulder when he was mischievous. She remembers the ugly, gnarled, half-alive version of him she’d found at Winterfell. She remembers how he’d cowered, how he’d bowed to the monster that had made him, how he screamed out of his eyes, begging her to help him so he could help her. She remembers him ripping himself away from what he believed to be his nature, like pulling stitches out of a septic wound. She remembers him pushing Myranda, taking her hand, sharing her prayer, and jumping alongside her. She remembers his shaking arms and his warm coat, his terrified bravery and his fierce determination, his unquenchable drive for redemption and his drowning guilt. She remembers a foreign child, a laughing boy, a traitor and a broken thing, and a brave man, who came home at last.

 

She takes a last look at him before leaving. He is one of many corpses lining the lower hall. He looks, for once, free of pain.

 

She encounters Jon on her way out. He looks as weary as she feels.

 

“Is he gone?”

 

“He was dead when we found him.”

 

“Defending Bran?”

 

“His final act redeemed him.”

 

Jon nods solemnly and their thoughts echo one another’s:  _ what does redemption matter when you’re dead? _

 

“We must meet to discuss our next move.” He says.

 

“Our men are exhausted. Winterfell is in ruins. Hells, the dead are still  _ warm _ . Allow us a few days to recover.”

 

“We need to at least discuss what the plan is. Daenerys has lost more than half of her army. She is impatient.”

 

“She’s vulnerable.”

 

“Aye, so she wants to hurry.”

 

“We can’t. It would be suicide for an army this weakened. We just killed Death and now she’d have us march to another war?”

 

“Then we discuss how long they need to rest. Either way, we  _ have _ to discuss it. We meet in an hour. Please be gentle, she has lost a lot.”

 

_ I’ve lost as much _ , she thinks, sharply.  _ I’ve lost a home, a childhood friend, and many loyal bannermen. How many Northern houses have gone extinct when no one was watching? _

 

“Have you been speaking to her? I have barely seen her.” She tries, and fails, to keep the judgement out of her voice.

 

Jon sighs, the weight on his shoulders forcing the air out of him. “Not much. I spoke with her this morning, but she is distracted. She spends most of her time in Ser Jorah’s room.”

 

“Will he live?”

 

“They don’t know. He still hasn’t woken up. Sam says he should be dead, but Mormonts are notoriously hard to kill.” They share a moment of fond reflection on Lyanna’s final act. The story had spread through the living like a fever; the girl that felled a giant. Sansa wishes, if a vestige of House Mormont was to survive, it had been her. She was young, ferocious, honourable and unwaveringly loyal to House Stark. It’s her luck that the last Mormont is sworn to Daenerys Targaryen. 

 

“Only time will tell.” He finishes with.

 

_ I hope, for the sake of us all, he recovers. Grief will make her even more unreasonable _ .

 

She keeps herself busy, visiting wounded and organising the dead so they can be buried in houses, wearing the appropriate sigil. She prioritises the clearing of the main courtyard and the Great Hall, leaving the outer wings for later as she rebuilds Winterfell from the core outwards. She doesn’t stop, doesn’t rest, doesn’t dwell on what they’ve lost or what is to come.

 

The meeting is a sombre one. She supposes she should be thankful that everyone is still here. Except Theon, that is. Though never tactically brilliant, she feels his absence everywhere. However, it seems miraculous that they didn’t lose more people.

 

“We must strike while we still might have the element of surprise. If Cersei thinks we’re still fighting the Night King’s army, she’ll become complacent. The longer we wait, the more heavily she will fortify King’s Landing.”

 

“Our armies are decimated and those left standing are injured and weak. We need time to recuperate.”

 

“Waiting will make Cersei stronger.”

 

“We cannot take King’s Landing with a depleted army of exhausted men.”

 

The assembled council look back and forth between Daenerys and Sansa. The debate on which side to take plays clearly across several of their faces.

 

“As King in the North, what would you do, Jon?” She turns to her half-brother. He looks to his lover, who stares back. He scans the war table before them, considering.

 

_ He gets weaker by the day _ , Sansa thinks, mournfully.

 

“The men need to rest. Your dragons need to eat. If we go charging in, it will be the full force of the Golden Company and the Iron Fleet against what’s left of us. I say we wait.” Says Jon.

 

“If we wait-” 

 

“I know.” He says imploringly, appealing to her sentiment rather than her strategy. Sansa is a little disgusted, but lets him talk her down. “But we are too weak to fight. Please, Dany, give us a week to recover more, and then we will meet again. We will plan our course and head for King’s Landing, but that must be put on hold for the time being.”

 

“My army is strong enough.”

 

“What is left of your army isn’t enough. And what of Ser Jorah?”

 

“What of him?” She says. It is almost a snarl.

 

“He cannot leave. He cannot even stand.”

 

“I will leave him here.”

 

“Will you?”

 

Daenerys regards him coldly. Sansa wonders if their whole relationship has turned cold, wonders why it would have in the afterglow of victory.

 

“One week.” She says finally. “We reconvene in a week, and then we march for King’s Landing.”

 

\- - -

 

A week passes. A slow, crawling week, of funerals and mourning, building walls and counting ever-shrinking food stocks. The night may be over but winter lingers, and few venture out from beyond the walls of Winterfell. Some Northern houses ask to leave for home, to return to their land and get their affairs back in order, but the permission doesn’t come, so Winterfell remains full to the brim.

 

Daenerys spends a lot of time alone with her dragons. They fought well, faced death, and did her proud. The beating, pulsing,  _ raging _ under her skin when she thinks of what is not yet hers is lessened in their presence. Her thirst seems less urgent, her impatience less apparent.

 

Jon turns from her now. Only days before, they’d spent hours in silence, wrapped around each other, speaking in a language higher than words. Her heart aches, his detachment made all the more infuriating by his respectfulness. He wasn’t raised Targaryen, and seeing her as his aunt has clearly presented him with some conflict that will take a while to come to terms with.

 

Ser Jorah remains the same. He breathes, his heart beats, but he doesn’t stir. He is pale still, like he is even now on the brink of death, like his body isn’t making more blood to replace the amount he lost, but still he lives, despite Sam’s fears. She is like her children once were, trapped and chained beneath the pyramid of Meereen. She is a caged animal, restlessly pacing, and forcing herself to keep a level head. If he were to die, she is worried what it would do to her.

 

She cannot sit in this purgatory for much longer. It will drive her mad.

 

The throne recedes, slips out of her grasp once more. She is stumbling in her haste, but won’t be stilled. She sits on hot coals, and for the first time she feels her skin burning. She will not rest idle while her enemies prepare for her. She will not let all her sacrifice and suffering be for nothing. She cannot go back, she will not sit still, she will make the final push before her legs give out from underneath her.

 

She enters the drafty upstairs room they use for council meetings. There is a new map upon the war table and there are only three pieces signifying her Dothraki and Unsullied forces. She stands in front of the fireplace, her hands clasped in front of her, and waits for everyone else to gather.

 

\- - - 

 

Sansa is tired. She hasn’t slept for more than a couple of hours in days and she feels it blurring the edges of her vision, making the sound of other’s voices more distant. Her chambers, her parents’ chambers, feel too big and empty, and the cold taps its sinister fingers against the windows. She is unsettled, even now, when they are supposed to be safe.

 

She is trying to pay attention to Daenerys and Jon arguing, but it’s more of the same.

 

“We must march with all haste! While the people are still enthused by our victory over death and rallying for change! While Cersei thinks we are broken, we must be strong!”

 

“We cannot march without knowing what we’re marching to do. We _need_ to think this through!”

 

“All I’ve done since I arrived in this country is ‘think things through’, and every time I have tried to be tactical, I have been defeated. I lost Dorne and the Martells, and Highgarden and the Tyrells, by listening to all of you trying to be clever. Tactics can be undermined or anticipated. Dragons cannot. The victory I won before this one was a battle I ‘charged into’. Nothing can defeat my dragons, they are my strength and they are what will bring us victory.”

 

“Your dragons are tired, we are  _ all _ tired. We  _ have _ to take this slowly. We won’t get a second chance.”

 

“You suggest we just sit around and do nothing?”

 

“We cannot just unleash your dragons on King’s Landing.”

 

Daenerys scoffs, but is interrupted.

 

“Quite right.” Says Tyrion Lannister. He is the only one sitting down. He looks as phlegmatic as usual, tipping his goblet back to finish his wine. Sansa will never forget their conversation in the crypt, but she reminds herself that they thought they were going to die there, and now the danger is less imminent, he has slipped comfortably back into smugness and alcoholism. She disapproves.

 

“We cannot take King’s Landing safely and effectively with dragons. What’s left of the city after a dragon attack will certainly not want to kneel to the beasts’ mother. My sister will have equipped her men with knowledge as well as swords, and I imagine the walls will be teeming with scorpions. To fly straight in would be too risky. If we lose the dragons, we lose one of our two greatest weapons.”

 

Daenerys narrows her eyes, baited. “What is the other?”

 

“The combined wisdom currently standing in this room.” Tyrion says, choosing now to stand up and go and refill his goblet.

 

Drunk and unimpressive in stature as he may be, he commands the room’s attention, and even Daenerys silently waits for him to continue.

 

“Flying directly at them will make the dragons an easy target. There are enough provisions in the capital for the siege to last months. We cannot attack the city; we will lose millions of lives.”

 

“Lives being used as a weapon against me. Lives that are no more than a shield that Cersei thinks I will not break through.”

 

“Lives of the people you intend to rule." Tyrone cuts her speech. "Lives of your citizens. Lives which should not be wasted as collateral damage when there is another way.”

 

He doesn’t raise his voice, but it is hard-edged. Sansa raises her eyebrows as she watches him square up to the Dragon Queen.

 

“What other way?” She says through gritted teeth.

 

He sighs, and makes a big display of sitting back down. Daenerys looks impatient.

 

“Our first problem is the Iron Fleet. Our advantage is the air, but we must take them by surprise. The only way to do this is with dragons.”

 

“You said it was too risky to fly straight at the scorpions.”

 

“Yes, if they can see you. Fly at night. Attack them from above, hidden by darkness. Dragons are quieters than armies. By the time they know what’s upon them, it will be too late.”

 

“Then King’s Landing will be ready for us.”

 

“We go to Dragonstone first. We split our armies and circle King’s Landing. We divert their attention in several directions, and then attack from underneath.”

 

“Underneath?”

 

“All we need is a small group of skilled warriors to infiltrate the city. We just need Cersei dead. The Golden Company will leave when there is no one to pay them, and the people will rally behind the ruler who delivered them from my sister’s regime without spilling civilian blood.”

 

Daenerys thinks, pressing her lips together. Her stare is intense, but Tyrion meets it evenly. “It seems too risky.” Sansa sees her posture go rigid, her body pulled taut like a bowstring with annoyance.

 

“It will save millions of lives.”

 

“Or it will do nothing but get our most skilled soldiers killed.”

 

“I’ll go.”

 

Sansa’s head whips around to look at her sister. She stands with her hand on the hilt of her little sword, and blinks back at the room that is staring at her.

 

“No.” Sansa says, before she can even think about it.

 

“I’m sure between Ser Davos, Lord Tyrion and Ser Jaime, we can work out a way in. I just need a single clean shot, and it’ll be over.”

 

“Arya, you are a Stark of Winterfell, not a petty assassin. You are too valuable to risk.” Says Sansa, desperately trying to keep the panic out of her voice. It looks like Jon wants to agree with her.

 

“I killed the Night King, or have you forgotten?” She says, turning to Sansa. For all her ferocity, she has to crane her neck up slightly to address her sister. “Cersei is not a great demon. She will be easy by comparison.”

 

“I won’t allow it.”

 

Arya raises her brows and looks to Jon. He sighs again. Across the table, the new Lord of Storm’s End looks like he wants nothing more than to dispute the idea himself, but he manages to hold his tongue.

 

“I’ll go as well.”

 

They all turn to look now at Jaime Lannister. He has been silent for most of the meeting. His eyes are dull and his expression is heavy, but he straightens his spine and lifts his chin.

 

“So you and your sister can escape justice together? I don’t think so.” Says Daenerys. She does not trust Jaime. She never has. Sansa isn’t completely sure she does either.

 

She  _ does _ trust Brienne of Tarth, however, who vouched for him, and is now looking at Ser Jaime with an expression akin to mild horror.

 

“I have no desire to return to who I was. I left Cersei, I risked my life to fight alongside you, and yet you still doubt me?”

 

There is something malicious glittering at the back of Daenerys’ eyes. It’s a unique form of hatred that Sansa recognises with a jolt of familiarity;  _ you killed my father, and I will not forget that. _

 

“You fought valiantly, this I will not deny, but you rode North to keep a promise, and that promise has been fulfilled. How do I know you will not return to your old life? You seem to switch sides when it is convenient to you.”

 

“Cersei wouldn’t have Jaime back even if he wanted her.” Says Tyrion. He, like everyone else, is observing his brother closely, like he’s trying to find support for his words after he’s said them.

 

“I know the Red Keep. I am the only one here who might not be killed on the spot if I’m discovered. Hells, I might even be escorted up to see her.”

 

“And you’re suggesting that you are capable of killing your sister?” Sansa asks, because everyone is thinking it.

 

He swallows.  _ Maybe he is _ , she thinks.

 

“I will go too.” Says Brienne of Tarth.

 

Jaime’s head whips around, Tyrion squints at her and Sansa finds herself saying “what?”. Brienne is her sworn knight. She should be with her lady, not embarking on a suicidal, if at this point entirely theoretical, mission.

 

“I am stronger than Ser Jaime. If he attempts to run, I will stop him. I will protect him and Arya as they infiltrate the Red Keep. They might need the support.”

 

Tyrion scoffs. “If anyone were to let Jaime slip away with Cersei it would be you. I don’t think you’re capable of killing him, Ser Brienne.” The implication of affection behind his statement makes Sansa look between the two very different blonde knights. She  _ had _ wondered…

 

“Believe me, I wouldn't let him make a mistake as stupid as betraying us, or returning to the oathbreaker he used to be.” She says with an even voice, but emotive eyes. Something in her sentence catches at Ser Jaime, and his face fills with sorrow. He looks at the floor.

 

“I am a new man.” He says softly. “I promise. There is so little of my sister left, I want her end to be quick and final. I want to be there. I want to save her, yes, just not in the way you think I do.”

 

Sansa believes him, but she cannot let this happen.

 

“Ser Brienne is my knight, sworn to me. I need her here, to protect and advise me.” She looks to said knight. “I cannot risk your life by sending you to King’s Landing. Besides, you are easily recognisable, and will only draw attention to the plan. It will make it more of a risk.”

 

“You don’t need to be there.” Says Arya. “I will kill both him and Cersei if they try to escape. If he cooperates, maybe I’ll let him see her finished as he wishes.”

 

Her sister’s joy at contemplating how Cersei will die would have turned Sansa’s stomach a few years ago. There is nothing left now to disturb her, she realises.

 

“My lady, please, I want to go. I want to do this for you, and for the kingdom.”

 

“I need you, Brienne. I am sorry, but I cannot let you go. You must stay with me. I command it.”

 

Brienne looks less than happy. Sansa sees her glance briefly at Jaime, clearly hoping no one would notice, before she nods.

 

“As you wish, my lady.”

 

“I’ll go too. I know the passageways under the city. I know how to smuggle someone inside. I’ve done it before.” Ser Davos speaks up.

 

“We will use your knowledge, my friend, but you have little to no ability to fight. If they are to be ambushed, they’d need a man worth his steel.” Says Tyrion. 

 

“I’ll go.” Volunteers Lody Gendry. Tyrion shakes his head.

 

“You cannot wield a sword as well as others, and now you have a title to pass on. It is an unnecessary risk.”

 

“Guess it’ll have to be me then.” Says a gruff and unenthusiastic voice from behind a thoughtful Lord Varys. It is The Hound.

 

“Clegane?”

 

“I have business with Cersei’s guard dog. Any excuse to fight the fucker, and I’m on board. He’ll be your biggest problem if you manage to find her. Let me take him out for you. I’m the only fool in the Seven Kingdoms mad enough to attempt to fight my brother, let alone  _ want _ to. Besides, I know the Red Keep as well as he does.” He says, jabbing a finger at Ser Jaime. “I might actually be useful. And it looks like you’re short on options.”

 

Sansa feels her gut roil unexpectedly. Despite everything, she trusts The Hound. She had hoped they’d have more time to talk, but it seems he has a death wish. She nods.

 

“No.” Says Daenerys.

 

Tyrion sighs. “Your Grace, this is our best option. It will be quick, unexpected, and no innocents need to die.”

 

“I refuse to allow three people who have shown me no fealty to go and take my throne. This is a campaign fronted on my claim, I would have a representative accompany you. You will go with Grey Worm.”

 

“You Grace, if Grey Worm dies, you lose your army’s general. He is needed with them.” Says Tyrion.

 

“So you are suggesting I pin all my hopes on blind faith? That I trust three strangers just because they are good at killing?”

 

“No. I think it is wise of you to ask for a representative. I also think you see now why we must _wait_ to put this plan in motion.”

 

Daenerys grinds her jaw as she watches him. Eventually, she gives him an almost imperceptible nod of her head. Everyone else exchanges confused glances.

 

Tyrion addresses the room. “The fourth member of the party will be Ser Jorah Mormont. There is no one Daenerys trusts more, and no one who will fight for her interests harder. However, we do not yet know if he will recover from his injuries. We must wait for at least a month to see if this whole plan will be possible.”

 

Daenerys, Jon and Sansa see the trap she has fallen into at the same moment, all looking at Tyrion. Sansa can breathe again, with the knowledge that, because of Tyrion’s wit and Ser Jorah’s role to play, her armies will not be massacred on an impatient whim. Not just yet, anyway.

 

“I give you a month. If Ser Jorah does not recover, alternative arrangements will need to be made.” She says firmly. Sansa has noticed how everything about her, from her gowns to the tight and twisting braids of her hair, is more firm and unyielding than when she first arrived at Winterfell.

 

“I have written to Meereen.” She says after a moment’s contemplative silence. “My cities across the Narrow Sea prosper, and now the dead are defeated, I deemed it safe and necessary to establish a supply route. It is a direct sail North, so I think it unlikely that the ships will be intercepted. They will bring food and weapons from Essos to feed and arm our men.”

 

Hope floods the eyes of the assembled Northerners. Sansa begrudgingly admits relief at her actions. 

 

“Thank you, your grace. That will certainly improve strength and morale among our people.” Says Jon.

 

“Indeed, a smart move. A foreign queen who brings food and wine is infinitely preferable to a native queen who shuts her doors.” Says Tyrion, raising his goblet in a small toast.

 

Daenerys lets a small smile tug at her lips.  _ She is smug _ , Sansa thinks.

 

“I believe we are done for today.” The assembly moves and shifts as Daenerys goes to leave. Brienne moves closer to Ser Jaime, muttering something furiously close to his ear. Arya gives Brienne a glance, but seeing her occupied to goes to leave, followed a few paces behind by Lord Gendry, attempting to get her attention. The Hound and Ser Davos leave for the stables. Sansa watches as Jon turns to Bran, sitting stoically in the corner of the room, swathed in blankets and swallowed by his wheelchair.

 

“You are quiet, Bran. What are your thoughts?”

 

Bran’s wistful and vaguely unsettling smile is turned on Jon. “Everything is playing out as it should. You are all learning your roles and dynamics, so there seems no need for me to interfere. I will observe closer, if it puts you at ease.”

 

Sansa can see that very little about who Bran is now puts Jon at ease, but he nods curtly and wheels him out of the room himself. Sansa leaves last, running the tip of her finger over the last lion figure on the war map, sitting closed off in King’s Landing, like a prisoner in its own den.

  
  



	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit of a boring one, I fear, but it had to be done. 
> 
> Just as a disclaimer: I'm treating most stuff as canon up until 8X03, but some stuff is the same, like Lord Gendry (and his proposal to Arya), in fact most of that feast. BUT, nothing has happened between Jaime and Brienne and no one else knows about Jon's parentage. 
> 
> You guys are wonderful, thanks for the feedback. As I said, I'm quite a few chapters ahead, so they'll be proof-read and posted soon.

Jon Snow accompanies her when she visits her dragons. His cloak whips behind him in the bitter wind and she is glad of the thick boots that are customary in the North. Her children are grappling over the carcass of a cow, but stop at their approach and come to investigate. Drogon noses Daenerys affectionately as his brother observes Jon.

 

“Be good, my love.” Daenerys coos. She has brought Jon because Rhaegal let him ride him. They tolerate Jon's closeness because he is a Targaryen, or perhaps because he is their mother’s lover. Or at least he was, before the almost-end of everything.

 

The dragons allow him near once more. He observes her moving around them, their tails curling and wings unfurling in the spaces she leaves, like a dance. A patch on Drogon’s back shines with the glitter of new skin; the healing left after a wight dug its sword in and prised off some scales, and Daenerys runs her hand over the wound. Jon stays rooted where he is and simply watches.

 

“They’ll like the South much more, I reckon. It’s a lot warmer there.” He says to her, when her back is to him. For a second he thinks she hasn’t heard him.

 

“I often wonder if my ancestors’ dragons would have remained large if they’d been allowed to go home. This isn’t home for them. If they refuse to settle, I will have to send them back to Essos.”

 

“And what about you? Is this home for you?”

 

Daenerys pauses, startled by his brashness.

 

_ Where has this desire for honest conversation come from? Perhaps the awkwardness between them was becoming too much for even him to bear. _

 

“Home is the Iron Throne. I won’t feel fully settled until I have my kingdom.”

 

“I understand that.”

 

“And where is your home, Jon Snow? This land where you were raised? The seat of your Targaryen lineage? Or somewhere else entirely?”

 

He looks at her with deep dark eyes. Daenerys prickles under his gaze once more. The downward slope of his brow makes him look perpetually mournful, as if he is disappointed but not surprised by all that happens. There is strength in his face, conviction, which she was so attracted to, but she can’t help but feel there is always guilt there too, buried in his expression somewhere.

 

“Truly, I don’t know. I thought it was Winterfell, then I thought it was Castle Black. For a while, I thought it might be North even further, with the free folk. Now it might be somewhere I haven’t yet been. The Wildlings taught me that more often than not, home is a people, not a place.”

 

She turns from Drogon and approaches Jon. He looks immediately wary, but stands his ground. He has moments of blinding transparency, yet often she finds she has no idea what he is thinking. 

 

“The Dothraki taught me similarly. It seems we have been travelling parallel journeys.”

 

He smiles tightly. “It seems we have.”

 

She wants him to say what he has to say. Daenerys considers her powers of speech to be adequate; she can be blunt or she can twist a situation verbally to her advantage. Jon Snow is quiet, but not subtle. He has something pressing against the back of his throat, begging to be voiced, but it seems he is too polite or too afraid to start the conversation himself.

 

In this moment, with the blend of fear and wonder in his eyes as he looks from her to her dragons, she wants to ask him to marry her. He would be her king. She would have him as her husband. They would unite a broken and bloody country. There would be no more tension, no more deceit, no more disputing her claim...

 

She reaches for him, touches his cheek, catches his gaze. He turns to her with that pained look again and she wants to scream in frustration. When she moves closer, he slips from her grasp.

 

“And you do not love me anymore.” She says. She is more angry than upset, angry because _he_ brought this poison to _her_. All of this was out of her control, and yet she still feels like a fool.

 

His sigh seems to last years. “I do, Dany. I love you very much. Things would be much easier if I didn’t.”

 

She folds her hands together to bring them as close to herself as possible. She waits for him to explain.

 

“You are my aunt. I know it is a part of Targaryen history, but I was raised thinking of that as incest. I am...shaken by my feelings, I admit.”

 

“You cannot help who you love. We didn’t know when we met. If you had known, would things have been different?”

 

She meant this, arrogantly, to work in her favour. Instead, in his guilty eyes, she sees that things would have been very different. He would have been respectful, friendly, maybe even admiring, but anything deeper would have never crossed his mind. She is shaken at her core. The ground feels thin and cracked beneath her.

 

“I don’t know.” He lies. “I never will know. The fact is, we are related and I love you. This is something I have to come to terms with, and it pains me to turn from you, but please, give me time to think on things.”

 

She thinks of freezing nights spent sheltered in his bed, in his arms. She thinks of how close two people can get, how he lacked the strangeness of her first lover and the arrogance of her second, how he could be so warm and so cold at the same time. She thinks of how she’d bared her heart again, thinking it was stone but still risking frostbite, offering it to him with a bold stare but a trembling hand. He had taken it. He had met her halfway. For a while.

 

“Do not doubt my loyalty for a second. You are my queen, and will be until we are both dead, or you are on the throne. I will not brandish my heritage. I will not claim my birthright.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“I don’t want to rule. I have  _ never  _ wanted to rule. The last time I assumed a leadership role, it got me killed. Besides, being born into royalty is one thing, but it isn’t mine by right, not truly. I have done nothing to earn it, nothing to  _ claim _ it. It would be an insult. You have my unwavering support, Dany, and I will never rise up against you.”

 

She can sense it in the way he won’t meet her eyes. “...But?”

 

He visibly steels himself. “Please, let me tell my family.”

 

She swallows. “You can’t.”

 

“They need to know. I can’t keep this from them.”

 

“If you tell them, it will be the end of me.”

 

“I trust them. I’ll make them see how important you are to me, and they won’t tell. I’ll make them swear.”

 

“If you love me, you will not risk telling them. Why do they need to know? If they are your family, as you say, it doesn’t matter what blood you have. They accepted a bastard, they accepted you as an outsider, so why press the issue when there is so much at stake?”

 

“They deserve the truth.”

 

“Sansa will use it against me. She will swear to you but spread it behind your back. She has never liked me.”

 

“Sansa will do-”

 

“Don’t try and deny it. She would much rather see you on the Iron Throne. This will be ammunition for her. This is a weakness of mine that she can exploit. What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her, but what she does know will hurt me.  _ Please _ , Jon.”

 

“I can’t...I can’t  _ lie _ , it’s not right, I can’t-”

 

“If I am your queen you will obey me. If I am your family you will protect me. If you love me you will never do anything that might hurt me. This will hurt me, Jon, it is inevitable.”

 

His honor and emotion join with her words and back him into a corner. His brow is set as he looks at her; pale hair, pale skin, pale coat, pale snow.

 

“Please. Don’t tell anyone. If you have no intention of claiming the throne, the secret is useless. Your parents are gone either way, and your family _is still Stark_. You are Warden of the North, and I am your queen. We will keep this, with Bran and Samwell, and let it die with us. It will do us no harm if only we know it, but the slightest chance of it spreading is a deadly risk. It is not so monumental. It is better buried.”

 

He teeters. She moves in for the final blow.

 

“This will be the last thing I ask of you as your lover, Jon. I will never seek to own your heart, I will never hold you to former vows spoken in misguided passion. If you swear to keep this, I will know you are faithful and will ask no more of you.”

 

He bristles. He tries to relax. He faces her once again, a more subservient man.

 

“You may ask of me what you want. You are my queen and I will serve you. I...will keep the secret, and will not tell my family, if that is what you wish. It will go no further.”

 

The air leaves her lungs in a rush of relief. She smiles regally. _Beautifully_.

 

“Thank you, Jon Snow, Aegon Targaryen. I will not forget who you are, even if the world does not know. With this act, you protect your queen, and your family. You keep the peace.”

 

He nods. He still grapples within his head, but she is no longer scared. When she moves to take him in her arms, he lets her.

 

“There is much to be done. You will be great, and you will do your houses proud.” She says into his ear.

 

He nods against her shoulder, hugs her back, but she feels his tension, and celebrates her victory at the same time as she mourns her loss.

  
  



	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is short, I apologise, but the next one will be up soon. I'm steaming ahead with the later chapters, so I might update more regularly to avoid a backlog. 
> 
> Thanks for reading everyone!

That very night, Daenerys dreams.

 

The heat is unbearable. She is not used to experiencing pain because of heat, but her skin feels like it is blistering. She tries to move quickly, but the stone beneath her bare feet is unrelentingly hot, seconds away from melting.

 

_ Fire cannot kill a dragon _ , she reassures herself, but at least for now, it burns.

 

The room has a floor but no walls or ceiling. It seems unbearably small but also cavernously large, like she herself is too big for an impossibly big room. A figure in red stands at one end, but as Daenerys approaches, they grow and swell, until she is a woman swallowed by red, her pale and beautiful face like calm waters hiding a kraken. Everything is red, except her skin, which is white, and her eyes, which are true black, like the absence of colour. Her long scarlet hair fans out around her head like tentacles. She seems impossible in many dimensions. She seems to have too many limbs, but Daenerys cannot count them. She seems to grow more as Daenerys gets closer.

 

“You saved my friend.” Is the first thing Daenerys says, although she wants to ask much more.

 

“I saved nothing and no one. I merely restored order.” Her voice is male and female, low and high, shouted and whispered. Daenerys barely recognises her, despite her face being the same as in life. 

 

“You are God, then? The true god?”

 

The jewel around her neck, set in a golden choker, hisses like newly-forged steel doused in water.

 

“I was a vessel, nothing more. I am not to be worshipped.”

 

She moves closer to Daenerys on apparently human legs. The sky lights up with a sudden flash of lightning. Daenerys waits for thunder that doesn’t come.

 

“Am I following the right path?” It seems every decision she makes is monumental these days. It is as if a single misstep will send her spiralling downwards.

 

“You are on the only path. Much is to come, Dragon Queen, but I am not here to preach to you, or fill your mind with cryptic words.”

 

“No? Then what are you here for?”

 

“Rather, what are you here for? This is my domain. I have nowhere else to go. It is only your imagination, Daenerys, you need not fear it so.”

 

She is trembling, and cannot stop.

 

“You’re lost. You’re stagnant. A river must inevitably flow to the sea. End the cycle, Stormborn. Remember, you are Unburnt, but also the Breaker of Chains.”

 

Her voice is light now, and knowing. It makes Daenerys bristle and simmer. It makes her want her to be quiet. The ruby at her neck glows brighter and brighter until Daenerys cannot focus on anything else. It is so bright it is blinding. She reaches out, without thinking, to block it from her vision. Her fingers touch its burning surface and it comes away in her hand. She almost apologises, but the priestess’ lips are pulled in a smirk, and her eyes are almost human, for the first time. She is transparent in her presence. Daenerys pulls the jewel from its setting.

 

It crumbles in her palm, red dust slipping between her white fingers, like blood seeping into snow. The thunder finally comes, and the ground shakes. The Red Woman smiles on, then is set alight, her robes and hair and smirk going up in ravenous flames. Despite this, she looks more solid and real than ever.

 

Daenerys jolts awake, gasping into the space between dreaming and reality. She stares at the ceiling of her Winterfell chambers. Her chest heaves and she shivers in the chill exasperated by the sweat on her skin. Her fingers tingle.

 

She is up and wrapped in a robe before Missandei can be summoned by her bleary-eyed Dothraki guard, who blinks after her as she storms from her room. She winds through the castle’s corridors. She doesn’t know what time it is, some time after dawn, but it is early enough that few people seem to be stirring, and none with such vigour as the Targaryen queen, blitzing through Winterfell like she is being pursued. No, like she is hunting something.

 

No one guards the room she enters. She pushes open the door and the only occupant does not stir from where he lies on the bed. She sees his armour in a pile on a chair. She reaches for his leather belt, knowing that she will find a smaller sheath on the opposite side to his scabbard. She pulls his dagger out by its modest hilt and thrusts it straight into the fire, barely noticing how the flames lap at her sleeve, leaving it heavily singed.

 

It is at this point that Samwell Tarly, clearly summoned by someone who saw her heading here so early, stumbles sleepily into the room.

 

“Your Grace?!”

 

He tries, and fails, to reach her in time. She pulls the dagger from the fire and turns to the prone form on the bed. Without stopping to doubt her actions, pushed by a subconscious knowledge of which she dare not question the validity, she pulls back the bandage wrapped around his chest and jabs the smouldering point of the dagger under the edge of the ruby embedded there. His skin sizzles under the contact. His body twitches and tenses. It is the first sign of life from him that she has seen.

 

“What are you-” Samwell is frozen in shock in the doorway, rooted to the spot and staring in horror.

 

She digs the blade in, under the stone. His blood spurts and pools. She feels it splash on her face. His spine bows, his body contorts under the palm she places on his stomach to keep him down.

 

With a final, terrified, delirious push of effort, she prises out the ruby. It is forced out of the bed it has made for itself in his sternum and falls, slippery and warm, into her waiting palm.

 

“No!” Says Samwell; the cry of a maester who has lost a patient.

 

The ruby crumbles in her hand, its glow disappearing, its brilliance dissolving into dust.

 

Silence. She stares down at him, his blood dripping past her lips, the dagger raised above him, her eyes wide and wild.

 

With a sudden, guttural gasp, the body beneath her jolts. Sea blue eyes fly open and meet violet.

  
  



	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I rewrote this chapter several times, and I'm still not fully happy with it, but I really didn't want to overdo it and make it sound ridiculous. If you're here for Braime, that starts next chapter, so thanks for sticking with me. 
> 
> Thank you again for your feedback, it means so much and it motivates me to update quicker x

The first word he says is “ _k_ _haleesi_ ” but she isn’t sure anyone else would be able to discern it. His voice is harsh and hoarse, and he gasps around a dry throat. Daenerys looks to the door, finally, and acknowledges Samwell Tarly.

 

“Get him water. Bring fresh bandages and whatever will stop infection.” She commands, shocked at how steady her voice is.

 

He nods mutely, his round face pale, and scurries off.

 

The blood caused by the removal of the jewel pools in the shallow dent it left in his chest. It spills over the rim and down his sides as he gasps in lungfuls of air.

 

“Shh, be still, my knight. You’re alright, you are going to be alright.”

 

His eyes, wide and bloodshot and _still so blue_ , search her. He drinks her in like a man dying of thirst, looking at her from the top of her unbraided hair to her bloody hands, where they rest on his stomach. She catches the concern in his gaze.

 

“I am fine. I am unhurt, thanks to you. We won, we are all safe, and you are going to be well very soon.”

 

“I-” Whether from exhaustion or lack of words, he doesn’t finish. He looks around him, down at his own chest, at the blood on his queen's face, and back at her eyes.

 

She stares and stares at him, at every vestige of his conscious being, like she’s gorging herself on his living form. She watches him breathing, his pulse racing, his eyes seeing and his mouth opening to speak. Her vision blurs with tears. She fails to stifle a sob. She touches her hand to his cheek and allows herself a moment of selfish weakness, pressing herself against him and holding him close, burying her nose in the crook of his neck and letting tears slip past closed eyelids.

 

_ He is alive. He is here, with me, again, and I don’t have to think about him in past tense. I don’t have to realign my world so he is no longer in it. He has been returned to me. _

 

“Oh,  _ Jorah _ , you were dead...I was so afraid.” Her voice sounds small and childish in her own ears. He moves to return the embrace, then appears to stop himself.

 

“I’m sorry, you are hurt.” She detangles herself from him. His breathing is ragged, his features pulled in confusion, but he is  _ alive _ …

 

Sam rushes in, his arms full of bottles and bandages. Daenerys steps to one side, wiping her face clean with a damp cloth he hands her, and watches him cutting off the old dressings and squeezing a cloudy liquid onto the wound the ruby left. Once the blood is cleared, it doesn’t seem to bleed anymore. Daenerys watches with a feeling of embarrassment, as if she is invading their privacy. She thinks it is perhaps that she has been composed and regal for too long, and the outburst of emotion has startled her body.

 

Thoughts of propriety vanish when the bandages are gone. She moves back to Jorah’s side and rests her fingertips on his left shoulder. She turns to Sam in shock.

 

The skin is clear. There is none of the knotted scarring she knows the greyscale treatment left. It is as if he was never infected in the first place. As she looks closer, she sees other scars missing; the slash on his neck from Qotho’s  _ arakh _ , the nick on his cheek and the notch from his arm from the fighting pits, the punctures from the wights’ weapons, even the thin parallel lines along the back of his hand that were there before she knew him. He’s been wiped clean. The only mark on him is the fatal blow over his sternum. Sam shakes his head.

 

“I...can’t explain that. I suppose fire purifies?”

 

She’d forgotten the fire. Drogon had obeyed the commands of another, but maybe that was because he knew what must be done to save her protector. The Red Woman had been burnt to a pile of charred bones, but she remained unharmed.

 

As did Ser Jorah. And now he was new again, with new life and new skin.

 

He looks rather worse for wear; tired and confused and more than a little disorientated. She lets Sam work, itching to touch him again, impatient to speak with him.

 

Eventually his wound is redressed and he is moved into a sitting position so he can eat some stew Sam brought. His expression shows that he hadn’t intended to chew anything for some time, but seeing the maester’s insistence and his queen’s encouraging nod, he swallows what he can.

 

“I imagine you have questions.” She says.

 

“Aye.” He manages. His voice is rough, but just hearing him speak when she thought she never would again brings a fresh wash of emotion over her.

 

“The Night King was killed, just before you fell, by Arya Stark. Casualties were numerous.”

 

“Did...did he take another dragon?” He says, like he’s scared of the answer. She berates herself once more, as her eyes fill with tears again. He mistakes the affection she feels at his concern as affirming grief, and moves to comfort her.

 

“No. No he didn’t.” She manages a smile.

 

“Jon Snow?”

 

“He is well. All the Starks are. The only valuable ally we lost was Theon Greyjoy.”

 

“Oh…” Ser Jorah has always considered the boy a little puny for a soldier, but he bows his head respectfully nonetheless.

 

“Half of my  _ khalasar _ was wiped out. And half of the Unsullied.”

 

He swallows hard.

 

“And…”

 

He looks at her with weary eyes. Blue eyes. She was told recently, she cannot remember who by, that his fair complexion is uncharacteristic of Bear Island. The thought causes a pang in her chest.

 

“...and Lady Mormont. She died felling a giant. It was ten times her size, and a huge threat to the castle. She took it down with her, and her sacrifice saved many. She will not be forgotten.”

 

His eyes slide shut, his head falling back against his pillows. He feels guilty, she knows. His jaw is tight. It is almost unbearably intimate to watch him in this sudden and raw grief. He balls his right hand into a fist. She takes it and eases the tension out of it.

 

“She was too young to die.”

 

“She was unwaveringly brave. She wanted to fight, and she fought. She showed great strength and honour, and we are all very thankful.”

 

“She did her house proud.” His voice is thick with sorrow.

 

“She did. Mormonts are apparently made of iron.”

 

His smile is sad and a little bitter. She slices the limb off quickly now, rather than dragging out the cutting.

 

“You are all that is left, my knight. You are the last Mormont. That makes you a lord.”

 

He shakes his head. “No, I forfeited that honour. It would be an insult.”

 

“As the Queen, I fully pardon you and insist, for the sake of your noble house, you assume the mantle. Would you let your name die out?”

 

His brows draw together and he sighs. She piles weight upon an already broken body, she realises.

 

“Talk for another time, Ser Jorah.” She says. She takes his other hand. She cannot stop touching him, and has been doing so a lot when visiting him in the days passed, feeling warmth where it might have been cold and stiff. It’s as if she is trying to press vitality back into him, like she could leech some of her own health and transfer it. He looks a little perturbed at the contact. She realises that she doesn’t really touch him, not casually, easily, intimately. It has him worried.

 

“You died too.” She says, berating herself for once more lacking conversational subtlety. “You died in my arms, do you remember?”

 

His eyes glaze over. He looks even more confused.  _ Yes, of course he remembers _ .

 

He nods.

 

“The priestess came. She gave you her ruby. You have been in a state of deep sleep for nine days. It has...cleared you of your scars, it seems…” She touches his arm. He frowns at the smooth, unmarked skin.

 

“I shouldn’t be here.”

 

“The only reason you are is because you must be. Because the world needs you. Because I need you,  _ desperately _ .” She thinks of Jon, and how he turned from her only days previously. She thinks of allowing herself to be emotionally honest and having it thrown back at her. She loves Jon, in a way she doesn’t love Jorah, but she has, and always will, trust Jorah more, especially with the ways of her heart. “You swore to me. You are not free of your vow, even if you died for me like you promised you would.”

 

“I will be here as long as you need me, my queen.” He says, the words taking visible effort.

 

“I know you will, you have proved that. But I must take care of you now. You terrified me, my bear. You must never do that again.”

 

He looks genuinely sorry for making her worried. He goes to attempt further speech.

 

“Don’t you dare apologise, Ser Jorah. _You are a hero._ Rest now. We have much to discuss, but you must recover first. I need you at full strength.”

 

He nods obediently. He still looks disorientated, as if he doesn't recognise the room he has inhabited for several weeks. His eyes are bright with awareness, though, and she feels relief, deep and earned, in the pit of her stomach, for the first time since the battle.

 

Sam gives him milk of the poppy, despite his protests which she bats away as ridiculous chivalry, and the strength drains from him and sleep reclaims him. She doesn’t leave, but calls for the papers that require her attention to be brought to his room for her to work on by his side. When exhaustion takes over unexpectedly, Sam finds her sleeping in a chair beside her knight, her fingers curled out towards him.

  
  



	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's hear it for Braime, one of the biggest fuck-ups of Season 8 along with Dany's arc, Cersei's death and the Night King! Let's celebrate by pretending it never happened, yeah?
> 
> If you're here for the Brienne/Jaime content, thanks for sticking with it. This is the start of what I have planned for them. I've always wanted to write this pairing. I hope you guys enjoy x

Sometimes at night, on the edge of the Sapphire Isles, she would step outside to see the lights in the windows of her ancestral home reflected in the water. If the night was still, they would throw her home back at her like the perfect image of a mirror. As a child she used to convince herself of another world, accessible only at night, through the Straits of Tarth. It was reality on reality, the cycle of living and dying, summer and winter and summer once more, and the world in the sea and the world in the sky, falling over each other, repeating again and again in her young eyes until dawn came.

 

Winterfell is like that in snow, from its battlements. White on the ground and white in the sky, snow underfoot and more yet to come, hanging threateningly above. The land stretches and undulates, reaching up and sinking down, in time with the rhythm of the Starks. Winter is here, but soon it will leave, and then it will return once more. Always another dawn to see, always another battle to fight. She is still alive, and there is work to do yet.

 

“You are avoiding me.”

 

Her jaw clenches involuntarily. She steels herself, drawing herself to her full height under her heavy cloak.

 

“What a thing to suggest, ser.” She deadpans. “Why would I avoid you?”

 

“I don’t know. I imagine I’ve upset you, but I always find it difficult to tell. Knight or not, you’re still a woman, and they’re impossible to read.”

 

His tone is light. She risks a glance at him. He has trimmed his hair and beard, but they remain the same shade of dark gold that is almost brown. He used to be blonde, like his sister, like his children. Both Lannister brothers in Winterfell at this moment have had their hair darkened by time and distance.

 

“You haven’t upset me.” She sighs. Truth be told, she doesn’t know why she has been avoiding him, but he is right; she has been.

 

“Oh, out with it, wench. I can’t stand you sullen. Did we kill Death just to let ourselves wallow in the cold after all?”

 

He drops his right hand down on the balustrade with a heavy clang. She flinches.

 

“You’re going to King’s Landing.”

 

“Aye, I am. Is that what is bothering you?? Missing out on another slice of glory?” She sighs heavily, cursing under her breath as she moves to walk along the battlements. He keeps pace with her, and keeps talking.

 

“I assure you, Ser Brienne, you have more than proved your worth. Kept your oath good and proper. Sansa Stark will be safe forever, Queen of the North, I’d imagine, one way or another. And I pity the poor fool who tries to hurt Arya Stark. I’d say that’s a job well done. So let someone else do the rest, you’re needed here. Besides, I’d rather be poked full of holes by the little Stark than have my head hacked off clumsily by a sword that used to be mine.”

 

“You think I’m jealous?” Her temper, so often checked, flares now. She rounds on him. He smirks as he gets the reaction he wanted from her. He stands almost a head shorter than her, his arrogant handsomeness a thorn in her side, as always. “When have I ever cared for glory?”

 

“Are glory and honour so different?”

 

“Of course they are.” This bickering they’ve been engaging in of late feels less cutting than it used to be, with no real venom behind it. This frightens her more than the insults that he used to throw her way, when he meant every word. She bites back the word “kingslayer”, which she almost tags onto the end of her sentence. That’s another bad sign; she can no longer bring herself to call him that anymore, because she honestly doesn’t believe the term applies as it used to.

 

“And aren’t you the most honourable knight in the Seven Kingdoms for not seeking glory?” He teases.

 

She turns on her heel. She has been helping with repairs and military organisation all morning, and she feels her empty stomach call for attention. She will eat and then return to Lady Sansa to await more orders. She will spend no more time idling on the walls, looking at the view and thinking of home, or actively avoiding Jaime Lannister…

 

“Do you really think I’d go back now?” His words stop her. He looks so pathetically out of place; a one-handed, guilt-ridden Lannister traitor in his 40s, standing in borrowed clothes on the walls of Winterfell. Lannister beauty is suited to summer, not winter.

 

She is once more infinitely glad that she’s never had to carry the burden of good looks. Maintenance must require so much effort and thought, and for what? To die, choking, at your own wedding, or falling willingly from the window of your own palace?

 

“I don’t know what you’d do. Your motives have always surprised me.” She admits.

 

“I’d like to think over the years I’ve gained some perspective. Like Tyrion said, Cersei wouldn’t have me back even if I wanted her again. I’d be walking to my death if I didn’t intend to kill her first.”

 

“And you could do that? Truly? You could kill your own sister?”

 

Her eyes speak what her honourable tongue even now dares not: you’d kill the woman you love? The mother of your children?

 

“I have to.” Is all he can manage, suddenly even smaller and sadder. When she first met him, he was impossibly large, filling every space he was in with his words and his prowess and his reputation and his _damned beauty_. Now she sees he is right; he is not the same man he once was. He is changed.

 

He is smaller, softer round the edges, and his new shape means he was able to squeeze himself into a tight crevice somewhere in her chest, worryingly close to her heart. Try as she might, with all her duty and intelligence, there appears to be nothing she can do to dislodge him.

 

“I know what they want to do with her. I see it in their eyes when they hiss her name. Cersei is finished, she has already lost even though she is too stubborn to admit it. I didn’t abandon a sinking ship, I severed an infected limb. And I know what it feels like to do that; it hurts. It takes a lot of getting used to. You are never quite the same, never quite as confident or balanced, without it. But sometimes the cut is necessary to save the rest of you. Sometimes you need to lose something important to salvage what is left.”

 

There is his truth, she thinks:  _ no more collateral damage. _

 

Ever the Lannister, his way with words sways her dangerously. She lets the guard down from her gaze, and stares at him with unfettered interest and scrutiny.

 

“You are not going back to kill her. You are going back to save her from a worse fate.”

 

He nods solemnly, and once more he cannot look at her. She believes, then, that he will kill his sister, if he gets the chance. He is the only one who would pay her that kindness.

 

Honesty deserves honesty.

 

“I believe you.”

 

He laughs softly, bitterly. “Is that so?”

 

“Yes. You are a good man, as I’ve told you several times.”

 

He plays with the pommel of his sword to avoid having to look at her.

 

“So now you trust me, are we on speaking terms once more?”

 

Her brow furrows in confusion. He elaborates. 

 

“There is no need for you to be in King’s Landing if you trust I will do as I’m told and be a good little Queenslayer. So you have no reason to be upset, yes?”

 

_ Oh. _

 

“That is not why I was upset.” She says. It comes out embarrassingly tender and she feels herself flush. He looks at her then. He looks constantly surprised when he meets her eyes. She often finds he gets stuck there. She wonders if there is something in their wide shape, their dull colour, their placement further off the ground than his, that fascinates him, because when he looks into her eyes, he doesn’t just look. He stares and stares.

 

He has been vulnerable, so she will be too. It is in her nature to be fair.

 

“I don’t want you out of my sight, not because I don’t trust you, but because I _do_ trust myself.”

 

“I don’t follow.”

 

“You might die. The chance of you dying is greater if I am not there to watch your back. That worries me and upsets me. I don’t want you to die, and I resent that you have once more put your life on the line for others.”

 

He laughs again. It sounds a little vulnerable, but good-natured. He scratches the back of his head with his golden hand and narrows his eyes at the snowy landscape before them.

 

“You’d weep honest tears for your dead Kingslayer?”

 

“Yes. Of course I would. You should know that by now.” Her bluntness shocks him so much he physically flinches. His eyes fill with  _ something _ but he looks stubbornly out at the hills of the North.

 

She is tired of pretence. She is not well-versed on these matters, but she will try her best. He could die in King’s Landing. They could die tomorrow from something else, she supposes. He must at least meet her halfway, wherever that is. She is confused and heading into uncharted waters, but she sees no use in lying anymore.

 

“So please, do not get yourself killed. Then I shall be _truly_ upset with you.”

 

He manages a smile. She sees it from the corner of her eye. Somewhere, beyond the safe walls of Winterfell, a wolf howls. She thinks of Sansa Stark, and how brave and strong she has become. She thinks of Daenerys Targaryen, foreign and strange-looking, holding her head high, terrifying in her unstable power. She thinks of Cersei Lannister, cowering regally behind stone walls, clutching her stomach, thinking of her brother, not allowing herself to ache and scream for her children.

 

“I expect I’ll see you at dinner, Ser Jaime.” She smiles, hoping it looks as much like a peace offering as it feels. “It would not upset me if you were to eat with me.” She says confidently, then, betraying herself, adds “...if that seems agreeable to you.”

 

She feels his smile following her as she leaves, like a physical presence on her back. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoy reading this one as much as I enjoyed writing it x

Considering what he endured, Ser Jorah recovers at a remarkable rate. The next time she visits he is not only lucid, but focused. The next time, she has to apologise, as she had entered unannounced not expecting to find him standing, let alone dressing himself, but he just finishes buttoning his tunic and invites her in. The time after that, she discusses the proposed plans to take King’s Landing with him, and he absorbs every word.

 

“I am telling you this unofficially, of course. There will be a formal briefing.”

 

“And I presume I am to go with Ser Jaime, Clegane and the Stark girl?”

 

“Yes.” She almost says. Then she almost says “You  _ were _ supposed to.” Instead, she is stuck for words; her mouth opening and closing while she tries to make sense of what she _wants_ to say.

 

“You need a representative, yes? Someone to go with your interests so that the realm doesn’t fall from your grasp when Cersei does? This is why you haven’t marched South already?”

 

Saying it like that, though she doubts it was his intention, makes it sound so selfish. She waited for him to heal so she can send him back into battle, like a 'lucky' stallion worked to death by its overzealous Dothraki rider.

 

“I...yes. I am not sure how much I trust those three. They are skilled and able, but I cannot be sure of their political intentions. I trust you with this matter.”

 

Outside of Grey Worm, she has no other options. She had even considering sending for Daario Naharis, before realising that the action would do more damage than good to the stability of her Eastern cities.

 

“Then I shall ready myself and await the order. I’ve only been to King’s Landing once, a long time ago, so I should have a native explain the layout to me.”

 

He sits by the fire, looking over the map of the streets of the capital she has left in his room, on the table beside the half-melted candles, flagon of water and fresh bandages for when his need changing. They have both spent too much time in this room and are itching for movement, in whatever form, so long as it’s forward.

 

“Forgive me, Ser Jorah, but I’m not sure I still support the idea.”

 

He sits upright in the chair, but his posture cannot fool her. He still feels pain, his bones still ache, his body still complains. She thinks of how easy it is to kill someone, how she stopped Drogo’s breath with only a pillow, how a turn and click of a key sealed Doreah and Xaro Xhoan Daxos’ fate and she could let time do the work for her, how a single word could melt her enemies before her eyes. A single stab, a powerful blow to the right part of his body, even a misplaced step or lucky arrow, and he could be gone again, without her there to see the light leave his eyes, without the Red Woman there to give him another chance. Her heart is raw and delicate, probed and scratched and abused, and a single blow, a blow such as that, might end her too. She has trodden the thin and tempting line of madness before. Could she refuse its call once more if she had to feel grief like that again?

 

Love and friendship and trust and respect are deadly. He died for love, and from what she has seen, it might kill her yet.

 

“ _Khaleesi_?”

 

“I don’t think it is a fool-proof plan, and we only have one opportunity. It risks losing some of our best fighters.”

 

“But four, rather than four hundred. It we fail, you can launch an attack regardless. It is surely worth a try?”

 

She wishes he wasn’t siding with Tyrion without realising. Despite his unwavering loyalty, he has often argued with her on the subject of tactics. She finds that his lack of personal motivation makes his advice seem more pertinent than that of other men, who seek to use her campaign for their own gain. When he catches her eye, she tries to convey what she’s thinking without speaking.

 

_ I don’t want to lose you again _ .

 

“You have fought valiantly, my knight, and I will not put you back in the firing line so soon. Your life is a gift. It has weight and purpose.”

 

“Might this not be its purpose?”

 

“To die in the catacombs of the Red Keep? To be betrayed by people you don’t know and to be stabbed in the back for siding with me? To be ambushed miles away from your home without your people learning their loss for months? To be taken captive and used as a pawn against me?”

 

“You know there is nothing I want more than to be of use to you. I shall serve you in whatever you need. Let me do this for you, _k_ _haleesi_. A final push until the throne is yours, and then perhaps I will rest.” He says the last sentence with a wry smile. She is still not content.

 

Unable to divert the emotion from her face, she flicks through the ledger on the table in front of her and shakes her head. “I won’t risk you. I don’t want you to go.”

 

“I am your only option. And I would hope you’d have faith that I’d deliver.”

 

“That’s not the point.” She snaps. It’s taken a lot out of her, this part of their relationship. Him dying, him living again, the constant push and pull of him leaving and returning; she is exhausted. _Surely he is too?_

 

“ _Khaleesi_ , the only other way is open war, and you are not a queen who massacres innocents. This is the cleanest way, and you know it. Let me go. I want to go. I don’t fear dying for you again, if that’s what fate has in store.”

 

She glares at him now. He freezes in her sudden attention.

 

“You’d leave me again? Alone? You’d risk your life and push me closer to madness once more?”

 

She hadn’t meant to say as much, hadn't meant to reveal as much, and he hesitates in response. She feels that every time she gets closer to him, she just hurts him further, like a moth in a flame. She’d do well to keep her distance.

 

“ _ Madness _ ?”

 

She sighs and goes to sit on the bed. She wrings her hands in her lap, but keeps her back straight, and looks up to stare into the fire, then turns to him.

 

“I need every loyal ally I can get. You are one of a kind. I cannot risk it.”

 

She looks at him looking at her. His gaze makes her feel strong, but also takes her back to when she was little more than a girl, scared and sandy and not yet aware enough of her chains to fight against them, let alone break anyone else’s.

 

She wonders if that girl is dead, or is still within her somewhere, bound by a different sort of chain.

 

“I am your servant, _khaleesi_. Let me take the throne for you. It is my only wish.”

 

Melisandre of Asshai mentioned steel, she remembers, vaguely, when she’d brought him back. Is this what she meant? Is this his destiny? Did this fire god merely return to her a useful weapon rather than revive her oldest friend?

 

“You should hold more value for your own life. It is not mine to do with as I wish, especially now you are the last chance for the continuation of your house. I will not gamble with you, and you will not be so eager to see me do so.”

 

She knows that he will dispute her. She knows that his life  _ is _ hers to do with as she pleases, because somewhere along the rocky path of redemption he has conflated her with a fresh start. He has given himself to her entirely, at the cost of his true autonomy, perhaps. And, call it devotion, or honour, or love, either way it will not do. Not anymore. She needs more than intelligent ammunition. Now, more than ever, she needs conditional but supportive  _ human _ companionship.

 

There are no slaves in Westeros, of any kind.

 

“When the war is won, I will return to Bear Island, if that is what you wish.”

 

“What do  _ you _ wish?”

 

“I wish to see you as queen. After that is done, I will be happy wherever I go.”

 

She thinks of him back home, his  _ true _ home; the beautiful island she has never seen. She thinks of him breathing in the pine-rich air, greeting the servants he once knew, walking the halls and standing in the empty chamber his parents used to sleep in. She thinks of him at the head of the table, with bears on his epaulets instead of dragons, healthy and happy and rich and _home_. She thinks of the new wife he will take, the new generation of Mormonts born to continue his name. She thinks of children with his bright eyes and dark, Northern hair, running and squealing around usually cold and quiet halls. She thinks of the new life and purpose this would bring him, and despite the unexpected sadness that comes with her vision, she smiles at the happiness she imagines in his future. 

 

“You know I need to go.”

 

“You don’t  _ need _ to go anywhere. I can take King’s Landing without this stupid plan.” She sounds petulant, she knows, but there is no need to remain pristine in front of him.

 

When she looks up at him he is smiling. It is the slight tug at his lips that he can’t fight back; he is fond, and he is proud.

 

“You cannot. Not without killing innocents, and that is not in your nature, no matter what these Northmen would have you believe.”

 

“Must you always advise me against my heart?” She says, genuinely exasperated.

 

“I advise you in your best interests, _khaleesi_ , and you know this.”

 

“The things I don’t wish to hear sound somehow worse coming from you.”

 

“I can only apologise.”

 

“If you wish to go and try to get yourself killed for me once more, then do it. If you succeed, my first act towards you as queen will be to let you return home, if you wish.”

 

The idea of him leaving her side ever again is surprisingly painful, but to rule means to make sacrifices, she believes, and if she must give him up to the North so he has a chance at a future, she will do it. It will be difficult and lonely, but she will do it.

 

“Thank you, _khaleesi_.”

 

_ If this is what he was resurrected for, what are the chances of him surviving? _

 

She’s always felt the invisible thread connecting them, like the stretching flax of Qartheen clothing, pulling taut when he leaves her side so every movement either of them make is amplified, and slackening mercifully when he is near again. This tether to her is his fault but her burden to share, and although it brings her great comfort to know he would never abandon her, it tugs at her skin and leaves her tired from trying to stand tall and still sometimes. She sees now, for the first time, that he resents it too. He is straining against it, fighting on some level for independence, but he cannot resist the pull unless he snaps the thread entirely.

 

Despite how much easier life would be, she doesn’t want to find out for herself what it would be like without this thread. In a way, it is precious to her, and as natural as sitting upright on a throne or riding a horse, riding a dragon.

 

“I will inform the others tomorrow. We will talk tactics and set a day. First, I will speak with Samwell Tarly and see if you are fit to fight once more.”

 

“I apologise for delaying your campaign, _khaleesi_.”

 

She thinks for a moment that he is joking again, but he stares sincerely back at her. Does he realise what he did for her? Does he even give it a second thought? Doe he understand that, perhaps, _everything_ is different now?

 

She doesn’t touch him anymore, not like she did when he was asleep. She need not; he is verifiably alive before her eyes, and although their friendship is close once more, she doesn’t want to be misconstrued, or to give the poor man any more fruitless turmoil.

 

She misses physical contact. Other than Missandei when she plaits her hair, no one touches her these days.

 

“Come here, Ser Jorah.”

 

He frowns for only a second before pushing himself to his feet and approaching her. He halts a respectable distance away and clasps his hands before him. She has started to do so too since landing in Westeros, as a queenly way of having something to occupy her hands. It seems appropriate here, more than it did in Essos, and she wonders absentmindedly if she picked it up from him.

 

“Yes, _khaleesi_?”

 

He wears a thick woollen shirt, and she thinks fondly of a time when they were sunburnt and heat-gorged, in so very little clothing, traipsing through a desert. She thinks  _ fondly _ on this…

 

She stands and approaches him. The top of her head barely comes up to his chin. He is much taller than most people she surrounds herself with; a larger presence than Jon Snow and one that feels a lot more permanent. She opens the first three buttons of his shirt. He starts a little in initial surprise, but voices no complaints, and watches her do it without comment.

 

The wound is a scar now. The skin has healed over in a marbled rough patch, clearly visible, slightly to the left of the centre of his chest. She wonders if that is where his heart is.

 

She remembers his blood making her hands sticky. She remembers the ash on her face turning her tears black. She remembers his death, like a physical blow, taking her legs out from underneath her.

 

She touches the skin with the tips of her fingers. She feels every muscle in his body tense. When he was asleep, he didn’t know she was holding his hand, examining his lack of scars, stroking his cheek. He is aware of her touch now, and it tugs at her once more to be reminded of how he is utterly,  _ painfully _ in tune with everything she does. When she makes the slightest movement, he feels it, always.

 

“Thank you.” She says, softly, because she suddenly notices that she hasn’t said it before now.

 

“For what?” She feels his question rumble through his chest. She swallows thickly at his genuine confusion.

 

“Thank you for dying for me, ser.” She smiles although she doesn’t feel like it, and presses her lips to the scar before he can say something inane like he’d do it again. She blesses what is left of the wound that killed him with a kiss.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I said slow burn, I meant it, so buckle up because we have a throne to fight for.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has reviewed so far, it really helps to hear your feedback. I have a pretty strong idea where the plot is ultimately going, but who I do and don't kill off isn't set in stone, so I'm relatively open to seeing where the story, and how you guys receive it, takes me.


	8. Chapter 8

Sansa scans her eyes over what she has already written. Her hand was always pretty, too pretty for the North, her septa had said, the subtle pride bespeaking the future in the South she had envisioned for Sansa; the warm, royal, happy life Sansa had envisioned for herself. But here she is, her Stark furs made to compliment her Tully beauty, a Northerner through and through and proudly so, in the biting cold of the watchtower, writing the same words over and over again in her pretty hand, and sending them off with ravens.

 

“The Night has ended. The army of the dead is defeated. The North is once more safe. We turn our eyes now to King’s Landing.”

 

She sends this message to their allies spread further afield. She was careful not to include too much detail, but decided that, if the message were to fall into the wrong hands, it would do little but instill the appropriate level of fear into their enemies’ hearts. With any luck, Cersei would expect an attack, not an assassination.

 

It isn’t work for the Lady of Winterfell, but the maesters are still busy with the injured, and she enjoys feeling like she contributes practically as well as politically.

 

She ruminates on the meeting that morning. They had assembled before dawn, and some of the council were a little worse for wear.

 

“It is far too early to be talking war.” Tyrion had complained, rubbing his head to soothe his apparently perpetual hangover.

 

“Agreed.” Said The Hound, slouched in his chair. Ser Davos Seaworth, for all his diligence, was still a man approaching old age, and despite his best attempts, she saw his eyes glaze over with fatigue a few times. Everyone else looked a little more alert.

 

A member of the party who had not looked tired, strangely, had been Ser Jorah Mormont, having emerged from his sickbed to return to Daenerys’ side and partake in the discussion of war for the first time since the battle. Sansa is little acquainted with the exile knight, but considering how badly he was wounded, she had expected a slower recovery, especially at his age. In fact, she remembers him in the prime of health, before the battle, and yet if anything his dance with death seems to have given him new vigour. He stood taller, looked stronger, and watched with sharp, alert eyes. She’d even say he looked... _younger_?

 

Could a near-death experience have such a physical effect on a man? Or have certain _details_ of his recovery not been shared with her, as her army's whispers seem to imply?

 

She pulls the string tight around the bird’s leg and carries it to the glass-less window, releasing it into the biting wind. Dark wings, dark words, they’d used to say, but ravens are almost always black, and words are not always gloomy.

 

“Ser Jorah has been deemed fit to return to service.” The Dragon Queen had said the words confidently, but she couldn’t hide her apprehension from Sansa, who has spent most of her childhood perfecting the art.

 

“ _Seven Hells_ , how did you manage that Mormont?” Asked Tyrion.

 

“Men from Bear Island are hard to kill.” Jon had echoed the words now often spoken around Winterfell in the wake of Lyanna’s final act. Sansa isn’t sure where Jon stands regarding Ser Jorah when the man is so clearly in love with the woman to whom Jon has given his knee and his heart, but if this was a way of publicly voicing his gratitude for his family’s service, it was acceptable, she decided.

 

The man in question had simply bowed his head and listened, his expression politely neutral, as if awaiting orders.

 

“So it is settled. We make our move.” Said Jon.

 

“If we move our armies South, we can ruffle my sister enough that she’ll be more worried about an attack on King’s Landing than the Iron Fleet.” Tyion had suggested.

 

“The Fleet was last seen moving North from Blackwater Bay. It seems they intend to fortify the South rather than actively attack the North. They’re staying close to Dragonstone, because they know Yara Greyjoy has stationed forces there. Cersei understands that it is our strongest foothold on the way to King’s Landing, so presumably is utilising the Iron Fleet to keep us from landing there or reconnecting with the Ironborn on our side.” Varys explained, his silky voice confident.

 

“Currently Yara Greyjoy’s ships are too few in numbers to even think about taking on the Iron Fleet. That’s what Cersei intends; to hem us in so out only way South is on land, where she can either catch us in the open or simply stay put where she is and attack from a stronger position of a siege hold.” Said Ser Davos. He had humbly added “I imagine” afterwards.

 

“So I go at night with my dragons and burn the Iron Fleet before they know what’s upon them.” Said Daenerys. Sansa remembers the cruel tone of her voice, the faraway look in her eyes, the brewing of a war queen that Sansa has never trusted.

 

“Aye.” Said Jon, but Sansa could see he was reluctant to put Daenerys in such abject danger. “It will not be risk-free. The Fleet is armed with scorpions, but dragons are swift and much harder to track and report on approach than ships or an army on foot. We’d have the advantage, and hopefully will cause irreparable damage before they can even calibrate the scorpions.” 

 

Sansa had noted the hope in people’s eyes then. Lord Varys looked approvingly at Jon, Tyrion nodded at Brienne, who pushed the dragon piece across the map to the estimated location of the Iron Fleet. Sansa saw Ser Jorah, stoic and collected, nevertheless looking at Daenerys with visible unease.

 

“Might it not be wise to take someone with you, _khaleesi_?” He said to her. She glanced at him, and he glanced at Jon. “To watch your back. You’d be more vulnerable out there on your own.”

 

“They won’t even be able to see her.” Said Tyrion. “She’ll be the safest a person has ever been in a battle; unexpected, with the high ground, hidden by night, on the back of a dragon.”

 

“Surely whatever lowers the risk must be employed?”

 

“Ser Jorah is right.” Said Jon, leaning both hands on the war table. “I’ll go too.”

 

Distracted by her recent memories, Sansa is brought back to the present as the raven turns and pecks her angrily. She releases it from her too-tight hold and it takes off into the sky, carrying the news of their victory to The Vale. Robin Arryn, locked up in The Eyrie, will be happy to know he can peer out from between his bed pillows, now the land is free of monsters.

 

_Almost_.

 

“It’s too dangerous. We cannot risk the King in the North.” Sansa had said firmly. “As well as the Queen.” She had added, although clearly as an afterthought.

 

“Rhaegal responds to Jon. He would be quite safe on his back, especially since he’s already had some practice.  However, I don’t think it’s necessary for him to come too.” Daeenrys replied evenly. The bite in her words was clearly only meant for Sansa.

 

“Ser Jorah’s point stands; an extra pair of eyes can’t hurt. We’ll watch each other. With any luck, Tyrion will be right, and we’ll be in little danger anyway. With both of us mounted on dragons, it should be a matter of minutes before we’ve caused enough damage.”

 

“It’s too dangerous. You shouldn't both go.”

 

“No one else has experience riding a dragon.”

 

“As I recall, I rode the bloody thing. Sure, Beric’s dead, but me and Mormont and that ginger wildling fucker lived to tell the tale. Seems it is something that can be taught.” The Hound had offered.

 

“That’s different. It was a rescue. Rhaegal responds to Jon in a way my dragons haven’t with anyone else.”

 

Sansa had caught something tiny and wavering in Daenerys’ voice then. She had caught her glance at Jon. Why would dragons respond to a Northern bastard they’ve never met before?

 

“I’m going. That’s final. It’s unlikely they’ll take either of us down, and at least if they manage to get one, with another mounted on a dragon they can finish the job. Maybe even attempt a rescue. It’s ultimately worth the risk.”

 

Jon had sent her a look. That’s what they had to communicate in now; looks and words hidden in other words. His decision was final and there was no point arguing with him

 

Sansa releases the last of the ravens and sighs, perching on the edge of the window. For a moment she glances down. The Winterfell towers always appear taller than they are from the top of them. She thinks briefly of Bran, and how terrifying those few seconds must have been as he fell, before the blackness when he hit the ground. She wonders if that is the most scared he has ever been. She wonders if he’d even remember. She wonders if he’d tell her if she asked. 

 

She wonders if this new Bran even feels fear.

 

“Once the Iron Fleet is dealt with, Jon and I will fly to Dragonstone. Sandor Clegane, Arya Stark, Ser Davos, Ser Jaime and Ser Jorah will sail from White Harbour.” Said Daenerys.

 

“Won’t that be the most obvious route?” Gendry Baratheon had spoken then. Sansa often wondered why he was invited to these meetings, having little to no tactical experience or training in the art of war, but she supposes he is the new Lord of Storm’s End, and this is likely an acknowledgement of that; a courtesy more than anything else.

 

“The Vale of Arryn’s coast is the safest and quickest route south by sea. Lord Arryn is our ally, and House Manderly has pledged for the Starks, so White Harbour will be open to us. If they leave several days before Jon and Daenerys, they’ll arrive at Dragonstone shortly after them, hopefully slipping past the runs of the Iron Fleet.”

 

“If a single ship of Euron’s fleet is left unburnt, they’ll never make it to Dragonstone. We’ll be sending four of our best fighters into certain death.” Said Gendry. Sansa, for once, was grateful for his concern, although she suspects it was mostly for Arya. He made a good point.

 

“Then we shall not leave a single vessel unburnt.” Said Daenerys, in her usual tone that left no room for rebuttal. If she could match the determined tone of her speech with actions, Sansa would be more impressed. It seems the Dragon Queen expects to topple her enemies by saying some words coldy a thousand leagues away from their ears.

 

“We convene at Dragonstone.” Said Jon.

 

Tyrion had leaned forward then, his stunted arms stretching to point out positions on the map of Westeros. 

 

“Grey Worm will take the Unsullied through The Reach. The Kingsroad is too exposed, so he will divert their path along The River Road and circle back, approaching King’s Landing from the south west. What’s left of the Dothraki will go with Tormund and the Wildlings. They will take a more direct route, considering they have a greater feel for the land and a more... _head-on_ approach to combat. They’ll be able to follow the route of The Kingsroad without actually taking it. Our Greyjoy fleet will be sent for as a matter of urgency. They have a long journey round to Blackwater Bay via Dorne. We will send our assembled Northern army to Pyke to go with them. There should be enough ships. They will land last, once the water is cleared and we have a stronger hold on the South. We cannot make a strong push on the capital, if it comes to that, until they arrive, so if all goes to plan, we may have to hold our positions and wait for them.”

 

A beat of silence followed, as the proposed command settled over their heads. For some, it was the ghost of a crown within reach, for most, the looming and terrifying promise of peace.

 

“Then it is simply a matter of getting our four assassins into the most heavily fortified castle in Westeros to kill the most important person in Westeros.” Tyrion had said dryly. “How hard can that be?”

 

“It won’t be easy, but no fort is unbreachable. Rain will reach even the deepest and most watertight of cellars eventually. We simply need to plan accordingly, use all of our knowledge, and the skills of our ‘assassins’.” Said Varys, as musically and self-assured as ever.

 

“That’s it? We fucking talk it out?” The Hound growled. 

 

“Yes. That and pray, if you like. We will need a lot of luck, but this is the best way.”

 

A collective sigh had stolen through the room. The hope felt only moments before had been replaced with anxious apprehension. The final push was upon them at last.

 

With the last of the ravens sent, Sansa descends into the courtyard. The rubble has been mostly cleared, but the walls are still scorched and bare of banners, and there is a sizable hole out of the roof over the passage to the armoury. She is to sit here and rule, building her home up brick by brick, as her siblings go South to fight for a cold chair she’s spent most of her later life trying desperately to escape from.

 

If all goes to plan, she’ll never have to go South again, not if she doesn't want to. She feels a certain disappointment at the thought of missing Cersei Lannister’s final moments. It would be justice, she thinks, to stand above the once proud woman who had belittled, tormented and imprisoned her as she begs for her life with her final breath. The image gives Sansa a rush of sick excitement. Someone will tell the story of her end, and it will be written into songs and passed from soldier to lord. She even entertains the amusing idea of having it woven into a tapestry.

 

The supplies from Meereen are due to land in the next few days. They have sent word to Yara Greyjoy to take her ships round the Southern coast. Once food and weaponry is distributed from the Essos cargo, the armies will mobilize. The Dothraki and Wildlings and Unsullied will leave on foot. A ship containing the Onion Knight, her little sister, the Kingslayer, the brute who had saved both her and Arya’s life more than once and a disgraced knight apparently back from the dead will leave three days before Jon and the last Targaryen, astride two dragons.

 

And to celebrate the fact that they all may ride to their deaths if they’ve miscalculated by a single hour, league or ship, there is to be a farewell feast held in Winterfell’s halls that night. Sansa has somewhat lost her taste for parties after her wedding, but it wouldn’t do for the Lady of Winterfell to be absent, so after speaking with her farmers and the head of her kitchen, she will return to her chambers to wash and dress. As with the feast after their victory over the Night King, she imagines it will last long into the night, and see most of Winterfell’s store of wine and meat depleted.

 

They need the revelry, she thinks. They need a last burst of happy peace, before the inevitable carnage comes, in the wake of the Dragon Queen's ambition. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're still in Winterfell, because I have a looooot of dynamics I want to address before the world gets too big and everyone goes their separate ways again, so bear with me. I apologise for this chapter being mostly tactics, I am by no means a strategist, but I guarantee I put more thought and effort into this than D&D did into the actual programme, so here you go. The next couple of chapters are character-heavy before the action kicks in, and I tried to make them kind of fun, so you have that to look forward to!
> 
> Thank you all SO much for your kind words. Any input/feedback is always lovely xxx


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote 'the party chapter' in a single document and it was waaaaay too long, so this is part 1 of 3. I hope you like characters talking to each other and pointedly ignoring their feelings, because this is that but with more angst/horniness.
> 
> Also, I am sorry for jumping perspectives so often, but I feel like the books do that a bit, and I want to give a glimpse into a whole bunch of characters' minds, so there isn't a great deal of regularity concerning whose perspective I'm writing from, especially in chapters like this where there are a lot of storyline crossover interactions. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone reading! As always, let me know what you think x

“To dragons from the East and the direwolves from the North! To men with blood on their banners and snow in their halls! To those with no houses, who fight for the land! To the kraken lurking beneath the sea and the lions smart enough to leave their pride! To the poor bastards in King’s Landing and the freed people of The Bay of Dragons! To the fearsome little she-bear and the she-wolf who ended it all! To those who died so we can get drunk tonight to forget that soon we might join them! And to those of use still living, may the gods have mercy when we finally knock at their door!” 

 

Tyrion raises his goblet and throws it back, wine sloshing into his beard as he drinks heavily amid the cheers of the hall answering his toast. The room is hot, packed with warm bodies, shedding layers of fur and wool with every passing hour. The night draws on but the warmth rises in stomachs full of ale and meat; the last fine cuts were used for the feast, with the promise of Essos cargo ships on the way, bringing livestock, spices and crops never before tasted in Winterfell.

 

Tables stretch the length of the hall, scratched and spilled upon by careless hands, seating Northern nobles and yardstaff alike. Sansa had decreed that the invitation of the farewell feast be extended to the hardworking commonfolk who attend her castle, as well as those of noble blood who sleep within it. A great fire roars in the hearth, the sound of lutes has long since been relegated to background noise as the rumble of half-drunken conversation gets ever louder. The Starks watch the merry carnage from their position at the top table, flanked by Lord Gendry, talking loudly with an inebriated Tormund, and Daenerys, talking with no one, but rather observing the room with a detached curiosity of someone watching fish in a stream.

 

Sansa watches more closely. She notes how Podrick Payne, Ser Brienne and Ser Jaime take it in turns to make each other look bashful while the other two laugh joyfully. She notes how Ser Davos joins the table of the few remaining ironborn and watches with interest as they whittle fish hooks out of wood with thin knives. She notes how Lord Tyrion does the rounds, visiting each table and adopting a new persona with which to make an appropriate toast, and then ultimately striding back to the side of the hall to prop himself against Lord Varys’ stool. She notes how the Dothraki have not joined them, despite being invited, as they prefer to drink with their own race in their makeshift camp outside Winterfell’s walls. She notes several Unsullied, standing immobile and straight as pine trees at the entrances to the hall, except for their general, Grey Worm, who sits beside Daenerys and her handmaiden. She notes how Daenerys’ eyes seem guarded as they switch between watching Jon laugh with Gendry and Tormund, and Ser Jorah Mormont, sitting below on a table of men from Bear Island, hesitantly engaging more and more in conversation with them. She notes how Arya has managed to slip away without Sansa seeing her go, and she briefly wonders where she is. 

 

It will be a long night, she thinks, and she imagines the drink will loosen tongues even further, so she will be lucky if those assembled fully dispel before dawn. After observing more of the festivities, she decides she may allow herself a moment of quiet respite as she goes to find her sister.

 

\- - -

 

“And so fire devours ice.”

 

“And so the wolf sings sweet songs to the dragon.”

 

There is a brief moment of amicable reprieve where Tyrion taps his full cup against Varys' empty hand.

 

“We survived. We made it out of The Long Night unscathed.”

 

“We are fools if we thought that this was The Long Night. I imagine there is much to come.”

 

“You place value in prophecy? Do the gods have a voice in your council of whispers?”

 

Varys laughs; light and without true humour. 

 

“You mistake me. There are many battles to come, and much more cold to steel ourselves against.”

 

“Our queen has dragons. Surely the cold should fear us?”

 

“I’ve always thought it a strange trait of this country to assign elements to bloodlines; the Tullys know the water, the Starks thrive in snow, the Martells speak with tongues of fire. Nature has always been more predictable than man, and you cannot reason with the seasons.”

 

“I don’t know.” Tyrion takes a deep swig of his drink. “You can’t always reason with people either.”

 

“We have managed to survive this long purely on our ability to reason with people.”

 

“I’ve been loyal to two houses my entire life. Talking my way out of one queen’s service and into another’s was the most terrifying thing I have had to do, and I once unchained two dragons who hadn’t seen the sun in months. How many times have you switched sides?”

 

“I don’t bother keeping count.”

 

“Exactly.” Says Tyrion, without malice.

 

“I don’t keep count not because there are too many, but because I have never changed sides, as you know.”

 

Tyrion sighs, slumping against the cool stone of the hall’s external wall. “I know, I know, you have always been on the side of the  _ realm _ .”

 

Varys smiles. “Dreary, isn’t it, this talk of loyalty?”

 

“I seem to either talk politics or girls, and I can’t talk girls with you.”

 

“Why not? Does my lack of experience render my opinions worthless?”

 

“Do you have any opinions?”

 

“Of course. Most of the realm is driven by its desire for flesh, it would be ignorant of me to hold no opinion on such matters.”

 

“I saw you in a brothel once. You must have been meeting with Littlefinger. You looked like a cat in a snakepit.”

 

Varys laughs a little. “An unusual expression.”

 

“Both are dangerous, both  _ slink _ , but they do not belong together.”

 

“And do you belong among the snakes? You always struck me as a romantic. To pay for company seems strange for you, especially as a Lannister.”

 

Tyrion scoffs. “It has been years since I set foot in a pleasure house. Perhaps I got into the habit  _ because _ it was un-Lannister of me. It made me even more of a little monster in the eyes of my family. I suppose I felt the need to lean into that in my youth.”

 

“And yet this world of paying for pleasure seems to be your weakness.” Varys observes. Tyrion raises an eyebrow.

 

“How do you mean?”

 

“You have fallen in love with two prostitutes, have you not?”

 

He forgets this about Lord Varys, now that they are hesitantly approaching friendship. What gutter orphans, chambermaids, brothel keepers or tavern owners have whispered Tyrion’s closely-guarded history into Varys’ open ear? With so few people knowing, where along the information’s path has it leaked into the wrong hands and been delivered to the Spider?

 

“A coincidence.”

 

“True coincidence is so rare. Might there not be a better explanation for the pattern? Something about wanting what you cannot truly have? Or perhaps believing that you are only worthy of love if you pay for it?”

 

“Or maybe prostitues are just good at fucking, and I get bored in the bedroom easily?” There is a bite in his voice that wasn’t there before, and he looks bitterly out into the lively room over the rim of his goblet. 

 

“I am sorry, my lord, I didn’t mean to offend.”

 

“Strange, I’ve always thought you mean everything you say.”

 

Varys smiles again. While Tyrion has been looking at the aftermath of the feast, Varys has kept his eyes keenly trained on him. Now that Tyrion pays closer attention, he sees how Varys’ eyes flick to their corners, how his head tilts almost imperceptibly, how he is watching Tyrion but taking in other information. Varys observes entirely unobtrusively, and Tyrion realises he has likely been watching the room with a keener eye and sharper focus than anyone else, without looking away from his conversation companion.

 

“How many people in this room do you think will fuck tonight?”

 

Varys’ attention is piqued. He once more doesn’t look away from Tyrion, but after a beat says “Thirteen.”

 

“An odd number?”

 

Varys nods, and Tyrion thinks he is just confirming, before following the gesture of his head to the end of a long table. At first Tyrion thinks nothing is amiss; Ser Davos has joined Brienne, his brother and his ex-squire, but then he sees the two girls standing a little way off, whispering to one another and glancing at Podrick. 

 

“And the others?”

 

“I have seen two Northmen looking at two of the serving girls. That girl there has two interested men, but she will only chose one.” The girl in question is pretty, and made prettier by the jug of wine she carries, Tyrion thinks. 

 

“Tormund Giantsbane has been lying with  _ her _ .” He ever-so-subtly indicates to a wildling warrior, sitting astride the bench instead of tucked into the table, engaging in a drinking contest with one of her brethren. “It is likely to happen again tonight.”

 

“I pity the poor fools in the room next door.”

 

“The two knights of the Vale sitting at the end of the third bench are lovers. They have been careful, but I doubt they will hold off for another night.” Tyrion catches sight of the two men, who look to be having quite a serious conversation next to a pair of Northmen, raucously armwrestling. 

 

“And the other two?”

 

Tyrion’s eyes are drawn to his brother. He has not moved from his spot next to Brienne of Tarth all night.

 

“The final pair are in our queen’s service.”

 

Tyrion wants to respond with something sickeningly devotional, like ‘ _ everyone here is in our queen’s service _ ”, but he isn’t stupid, and has nothing to prove to Varys, so says nothing and looks to the top table where Daenerys sits. She has spent much of the night, as she had the last feast they held here, watching Jon Snow. 

 

“Our queen and Northern king?”

 

“Perhaps. However, it is not for certain, and I wasn't referring to them.”

 

She isn’t looking at Jon Snow now. She has beckoned her bear knight up to her seat. Tyrion watches Ser Jorah lean down so Daenerys can speak into his ear.

 

“Who then?”

 

“The two she has freed from slavery and brought across the Narrow Sea in her company.”

 

Grey Worm and Missandei. Of course. He already knew, in some capacity. At least, this news does not come as a surprise. They are in love, that much is easy to see. Only…

 

“How? He is Unsullied.”

 

“Don’t ask me. As you so rightly pointed out, I understand the dynamic but not the practicalities.”

 

“Surely you would understand the practicalities of an Unsullied better than most?”

 

“I have no such urges. Either way, it seems to be possible.”

 

“How can you be sure your guesses are accurate?”

 

“I can’t be, I simply told you what I have observed.”

 

“Useful information, certainly.” 

 

“Human interaction is the easiest way to predict the future, I find.”

 

“I assume you’re not a betting man?”

 

“You assume correctly.”

 

“I would have put gold against your word. I think you missed a pair.”

 

“Oh? Who?”

 

“There is maybe no one in the world I know better than my brother, and he seems completely taken with the Maid of Tarth.”

 

Varys nods. “I have noticed. Alas, tonight is not the night, my lord. They have longer to wait, I believe.”

 

Tyrion gives a short bark of laughter and finishes his drink. “Brave and capable fighters though they are, they are both cowards when it comes to the ways of the heart.”

 

“I pray that they are given the gift of time.” Says Varys, and the warmth behind it takes Tyrion by surprise. 

 

“I pray we all are.” Says Tyrion, pushing himself off the wall, relieving the sudden, sad tension. “In the meantime, I will make use of now, and go and find more to drink. Perhaps I will be lucky, and can join your elite thirteen!” 

 

Varys bows his head, smirking, as Tyrion saunters off. He will observe for another hour or so, and then, when he feels he has a good sense of the web of loyalties and love around him, he will retire to his room to write.

 

\- - - 

 

When the weight of Tormund’s arm around his shoulders and his praises in his ear becomes too much to bear, Jon finds himself near the stables, taking in grateful lungfuls of biting night air and letting the silence settle over him. The dead had little need for horses during battle, so had let their corpses lie where they fell, and the living had managed to salvage large amounts of meat from their carcasses, preserved in the snow. Jon carries a shoulder joint now, bending under the low beam into Ghost’s makeshift kennel. The direwolf had been badly injured, covered in deep gashes, with several broken ribs and half an ear missing, but as silently persistent as the land that bore him, he survived, and voices no complaints. He sniffs Jon in a warm greeting, and falls upon the meat as soon as it is presented to him. Jon ruffles the fur behind his good ear and relishes in this private moment of understanding and companionship. If Ghost had fallen in the battle, it would have been a blow too painful to dwell on now.

 

He isn’t alone in the stables, he realises after a few minutes. He hears low murmurs through the wooden slats where the more elite steeds are kept, and rises to see who it is, giving his wolf a final pat goodbye.

 

He finds Ser Jorah, speaking with a stablehand, explaining to the illiterate boy what instructions are written on the piece of parchment he holds. He turns when he hears Jon enter.

 

“I shouldn’t worry, Arthur. Northern horses have survived colder climates, and when the ships from Essos arrive there will be enough to feed them all back to full strength. Just focus on these for now, by order of the Queen.”

 

Whether due to his black armour, his reputation or the increasingly loud rumours concerning his near-death, the boy looks a little afraid of Ser Jorah. He nods mutely and scuttles back into the gloom with the horses.

 

“Missing the feast for such a small duty?” Jon asks, good-naturedly.

 

Ser Jorah folds the parchment up until it is small enough to slip into his sleeve. “Small, but important, and best done before it is forgotten.” He eyes Jon as he pulls on his gloves. “And how do you excuse your absence?”

 

Jon offers a smile as a ‘fair enough’. “I’ve never been good in such company.”

 

“The company of your people?”

 

“The company of anyone too drunk or too loud. Lord Tyrion once said I’m more the ‘brooding type’.”

 

Ser Jorah laughs a little at that. “He says the same of me. I assume he thinks as much of most people, considering how much he likes the sound of his own voice.”

 

Jon knows Ser Jorah to be the silent type, preferring to listen than to speak, but he wouldn’t describe him as pessimistic. The solemn look of mourning that he realises his own face rests in, the drive towards the melancholy and the gravity of his character that he had even as a child, these he does not share with Ser Jorah. The older man is serious and controlled, of course, but being raised a bastard in a house that so highly values family, despised by the woman your siblings so warmly call ‘mother’, has engraved in Jon a sense of patient and gloomy loneliness that he is all too aware of. He has been an outcast in name and nature his entire life, and it brews in his very soul. He knows Ser Jorah to have had a less than easy life, and shame has poisoned his world view, that much is evident, but Jon wonders if he truly  _ broods _ , or simply keeps his thoughts to himself.

 

He doesn’t necessarily  _ like _ the exile knight. In fact, he feels little for him other than a respect that may just be vestiges of what he’d felt for his father. There were similarities between Jorah and Jeor, and something in being handed Longclaw by not one but two heirs to Bear Island makes the gift feel even more valuable, and his honour in wielding it even more pertinent. Ser Jorah is not much of a conversationalist. He lacks the brashness and humour that Jon finds he almost subconsciously seeks out in companions, perhaps to make up for his own quiet reserve. Ser Jorah also betrayed the very man who first gave Jon Longclaw, he fled his country and Ned Stark’s justice, and committed an act demanding of the highest punishment in the eyes of the woman they now both call Queen. Despite this, he fought valiantly on the battlefield of the dead, he protected his queen with everything he had, he’d put himself in perilous danger again and again to keep her safe and further her cause, and he had accomplished near-impossible feats against near-impossible odds to remain faithfully by her side. Jon respects this. He admires it, even. He admires the man’s unwavering strength, even at his age, and his quiet but complete devotion to Daenerys.

 

Yes, he admires that the most. In fact, he’d even say he _recognises_ it. He thinks perhaps they are loyal to Daenerys for at least partly the same reason.

 

And still, most pressingly, the emotion he feels looking at Ser Jorah now is  _ curiosity _ , which is unexpected. What is even more unexpected is, when he pulls himself from his reverie and meets the older man’s eyes, he sees the same emotion reflected back at him, albeit a brief flash.

 

“Come, Ser Jorah, sit with me a while.” He supposes it’s  _ Lord Mormont _ now, but he has a feeling Ser Jorah doesn’t want to be reminded of that title just yet. 

 

The other man raises his brow in surprise, but nods his head as an indication for Jon to lead the way. Jon seats himself on an overturned water trough and gestures for Ser Jorah to do the same. The frigid stone bites into his thighs, but it is a welcome relief after the stuffy heat of the hall.

 

Ser Jorah raises his eyes from the hard ground to the moon, staring down from a cold and cloudless sky. Jon knows he isn’t one for smalltalk, and so he might as well get straight to the point.

 

“I’ve wanted to ask for a while now. What happened to you, that night on the battlefield?”

 

Ser Jorah lets out a deep breath, as if he had been bracing himself for the question.

 

“I am weary from asking myself the same question.” He says, and then, after a brief pause; “I died.”

 

Jon nods slowly. “I...saw your armour. It was riddled with holes. It looked like you’d been stabbed over a dozen times.”

 

“I wasn’t keeping count.” He jests.

 

“I thought no one could survive that.”

 

“Aye, and I didn’t.”

 

He looks at Jon then. Blue meets brown, and there is a wash of clarity, a shared understanding, an almost familial flicker of recognition.

 

“So it’s true then.”

 

Jorah nods. “According to the Queen, and I don’t see a reason she’d have to lie.”

 

“When they found the two of you, Ser Davos said you were bleeding enough to melt the snow around you. You weren’t responding to anything. You were…”

 

“Yes. Dead, for all intents and purposes. And I stayed in that state for nine days.”

 

“Was it the Red Woman?”

 

Ser Jorah looks back to the moon. It turns his light eyes milky. 

 

“Melisandre of Asshai, they called her. They found her as bones after Drogon set the three of us alight. I suppose I was left unburnt too.”

 

“I heard she had died.”

 

“She died beside Daenerys, after pressing her ruby over the wound that killed me. When I eventually woke up, it was because the queen prised it out of my chest.”

 

“ _ Prised it out _ ? How did she know that would work?”

 

His brow creases. “I don’t know. I never thought to ask. It was fire magic, so I assumed she had some sort of connection to the jewel, but why would she? She knows little of what the Volantis priestesses call  _ R’hllor _ , and has had no interaction with his supposed power before…”

 

He trails off. Jon faces forward more so he doesn’t have to look at Jorah when he realises his true motive for asking.

 

“But you have.”

 

Jon swallows. The sudden hooting of an owl makes the horses stir in their stalls behind them.

 

“When we went North of The Wall, the men told a story. They said you were killed during a mutiny at Castle Black, and were returned to the world of the living.”

 

“Yes." He says. "By the same woman who brought you back. Not with her jewel, but through an ancient ritual. I am told it took hours.”

 

“You were reborn in ice, I in fire.” His tone speaks what his words do not; those elements intertwine more prominently with each passing day.

 

Jon straightens his spine before asking the question: “And how do you feel now?”

 

In Ser Jorah there is something that there wasn’t in Beric Dondarrion; a spirit untethered. As dedicated as he might be to the Dragon Queen, his life is still his own. He is not just a pawn for the Lord of Light to bring back and take away as had been the case with Beric. He is not a servant of the fire god. He is a man who has been lucky, who had the fortune to die in the right place at the right time. Jon doesn’t want to see emptiness in Ser Jorah’s eyes, the way he fears might reflect his own. He doesn’t want to hear words of darkness and nothingness, of holding infinity in your hand only to have it slip irreversibly through your fingers. He doesn’t want confirmation of the chasm within his being, the way his body now fits around his soul like a foreign object, the way the colours of the world have shifted slightly, everything being just a _bit different_ in a way that is still impossible to ignore. He doesn’t want to hear Ser Jorah say he is changed, irreparably, as if trespassing in the land of the living.

 

He doesn’t want to hear it, but still he  _ must _ ask. 

 

“Grateful.” Says Ser Jorah. Shame washes through Jon:  _ as I should be… _

 

The knight presses his lips together. “Hungry.” He adds. Jon frowns.

 

“Have you not eaten?”

 

“It doesn’t matter how much I eat. Or how much I drink: water or stronger. My stomach is never full. I’m never  _ truly _ exhausted, or completely rested, either. I’m never completely anything anymore.”

 

“I understand that.” He says, because he cannot express how relieved he is to hear it voiced by another; the sense of not being whole, not being  _ complete _ , like he left something behind in his first life.

 

“I am still grateful. It is nothing I cannot get used to, and even if living were ten times as uncomfortable as it is now, I would still rather live and be useful, than die and be left behind.”

 

Jon nods. “Well you seem just as strong.” He says, truthfully. In fact, Ser Jorah looks more alive than he had before he died. He looks less tired and weather-worn, more sturdy in his stance and the set of his jaw. There is more colour in him. He’d even say death has taken a few years off him.

 

“Daenerys remembers emerging from her first husband’s funeral pyre with her dragons as a rebirth. I suppose fire wipes the slate clean somewhat. All scars I once had are gone from my skin. Despite being a little less, I do feel... _ new _ .”

 

“Ice just preserves. It keeps you suspended.”

 

“Well we must be grateful for that too, then.” Says the knight. “Resurrection is a gift more than a curse. At least, we have to think that way. We have much more to do, and we’ve been favoured above so many others who never get to see what they’ve spent their lives fighting for. We’re perhaps not  _ meant _ to be here,” he glances across at Jon, “But we are here nevertheless, and the fight isn’t done. We have one queen to conquer and another to support.”

 

“Aye, that we do.”

 

_ So that is how you justify your place on a plane that should lack you, Ser Jorah? It is for her? Beric sustained himself on religion; is this yours? _

 

He’s always known that Ser Jorah’s love for Daenerys runs deeper than chivalric loyalty. How deep, and in what way, he cannot say with certainty, but he wonders if the same glitter fills his eyes when he talks about the Dragon Queen who, despite being his aunt, still has his love. He remembers her grief after she lost Viserion, and yet he cannot remember ever seeing her as unhinged, fretful and despairing as she had been when Ser Jorah was thought to be gone. He has wondered after Ser Jorah’s heart, but for the first time he wonders if Daenerys turns to her most faithful knight in ways other than simply that of a queen to her advisor. 

 

If Ser Jorah does see him as a romantic rival, he has never shown it. He has treated Jon with nothing but a polite, if slightly distant, respect.

 

“I’m glad you came back.” Jon says, without really thinking, because it is true. Ser Jorah seems as taken aback by the sentiment as he.

 

“Thank you. I am glad that strange women from Volantis see fit to keep Northmen alive, despite their best efforts to the contrary.” He says; honestly, Jon thinks.

 

“I’m sure the Queen will become very suspicious if she notices both or our absences.” Says Jon, standing, stretching his aching joints and now, refreshed, eagerly anticipating the warmth the hall offers.

 

“Indeed she will.”

 

The two men walk back inside together. When they enter back into the bustle of the feast, the only eyes they draw are violet, flitting between the two, and warming with a small smile.

  
  



	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have some Sansa and Arya chat and more Braime, because I feel like a lot went unsaid in the show.
> 
> Thanks again to those leaving kudos/feedback!

Sansa halts before she turns the corner, hovering in the shadows so she can listen undetected to the impassioned conversation happening ahead of her.

 

“You don’t have any say over what I do or don’t do. I wish you’d stop this. I’m  _ going _ , and that’s the end of it.”

 

“You think killing her will make everything better? You think adding more blood to your hands will fill your heart?”

 

“No one seemed to be complaining about the blood on my hands when I saved the world from the Night King.”

 

“I’m not saying you’re not  _ brave _ , or that what you’ve done hasn’t made the world better-”

 

“No, you’re simply pleading for my  _ soul _ , is that it?”

 

“And what if I am?”

 

“You should know by now what my answer is, Gendry. I’m not made for that life. It’d be unbearable.”

 

“So you’re just going to keep killing and killing? Slashing throats and moving on, never letting anyone get near, until you walk yourself to death on the road to nowhere?”

 

“Never took you as one for poetry.” Sansa hears a scoff. “I have things I have to do, that’s all. Eyes I need to close.”

 

“Yeah, but  _ she _ told you that, didn’t she? That witch who’s been surrounded by more death and destruction than anyone I’ve ever met. That witch who took the blood from me for her black magic?”

 

“She knew what my destiny was. More than I do. And certainly more than you do.”

 

“Fine. You want this life for yourself? _Fine_. Let me in it, and I’ll support you. I’ll never tell you what to do. I’ll never stop you from running off when you need to. Hells, I forge your damn weapons for you, just  _ please _ -”

 

“I’ve told you why I can’t.”

 

“How do you know it isn’t right? You haven’t even tried.”

 

“I don’t love you, Gendry.”

 

“Are you sure?”

 

“...Yes.”

 

A beat of silence follows. Sansa tries to read from the tone of her sister’s voice if she’s lying.

 

“Alright. I’m sorry...for getting so angry.” He laughs bitterly. “What I love about you is how headstrong you are. I don’t know why I ever thought I stood a chance.”

 

Sansa hears footsteps, and imagines Arya approaching the new lord of Storm’s End.

 

“I look forward to hearing all your stories, meeting your children, seeing you grow old and fat and happy. I’ll fill myself on your normal life, but it won’t be mine. I’m  _ sorry _ …”

 

“I just don’t want you to get hurt.” He says, soft and small and scared, like Sansa’s never heard him speak before.

 

“I won’t. I’m better than anyone thinks. I know what I’m doing. I know death.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, I got that.” He says, his tone lifting. 

 

To avoid walking in on a situation even more awkward, Sansa chooses this moment to enter. Arya’s expression is as impassive as ever, but Gendry looks suddenly bashful. 

 

“Good evening, Lord Gendry, Arya.”

 

“Good evening, my lady.”

 

“Hello.”

 

“You’re not at the feast?”

 

“I got bored.” Arya shrugs. It makes Sansa nostalgic; she never liked sitting still, especially when told that she must.

 

“I will retire for the evening, if I may, my lady.” Says Gendry, bowing. It amuses Sansa that he is making a noticeable effort to shape his Fleabottom manner of speech into something more lordly. 

 

“Of course.” Says Sansa. She would speak with Arya alone, anyway. 

 

He gives her little sister a last, long look, before striding off towards the towers of the main building. The Stark sisters stand under the walkway’s covering, where Arya has taken to practising her archery.

 

Sansa gives her a pointed look, somewhere between disapproval and amusement, and Arya simply rolls her eyes and starts pulling the arrows out of her makeshift target.

 

“So am I to take it that you will not be the Lady of Storm’s End?”

 

“I knew you were eavesdropping.”

 

“You two were not particularly quiet.”

 

“I thought men were supposed to be simple, and women were the complicated ones.”

 

“I assume a man told you that?”

 

Arya sends her a crooked smirk; the twist of her lips that is so familiar to Sansa. 

 

“He seems pretty easy to understand.” 

 

Arya nods, and the way she pulls the last arrow out with more aggression than strictly necessary translates to Sansa as ‘ _ he is perhaps more trouble than he is worth _ .’

 

She feels a fondness, somewhere in her chest, at the sisterly conversation they never had as children, that she never imagined them having as adults.

 

“At least your first choice was one of the nice ones.”

 

Arya opens her mouth, perhaps to protest that she chose him, perhaps to protest that he was the first she went to, but she stops, and her eyes soften marginally.

 

“I don’t want to talk about boys.”

 

Sansa chuckles a little. There is so much of Ned in her, so much of Lyanna, that it’s as if they are there once more, walking the whispering, steadfast halls of their home.

 

“You came her to warn me too, I assume?”

 

Sansa leans against a support post and watches Arya pack the arrows into their quiver. 

 

“Yes, but not about getting killed.”

 

Arya glances at her, urging her to continue.

 

“Do not let Ser Jaime out of your sight. If he keeps his word, he will be an invaluable ally once the war is done, so he must be kept alive if he is loyal. However, if for a second you think he will attempt to free his sister, you must kill him.”

 

Arya nods “Slay the Kingslayer.”

 

“ _ If _ -”

 

“ _ If _ he betrays us.”

 

“The rest I imagine you can handle. Clegane, for all his...roughness...seems to have a soft spot for you, and Ser Jorah cares only for Daenerys.”

 

“Then it’s just Cersei.”

 

Sansa thinks how the world has sharpened Arya, filing her edges into jagged points, crushing and sweeping away any weakness of character. She was always willful, always troublesome, always a thorn in Sansa’s side, never grown up enough, or ladylike enough, or nice enough or pretty enough. She’d been there when they struck their father’s head from his shoulders, just as Sansa had. She’d seen men tortured and mutilated, too. She’d killed for revenge, been broken and beaten, had her identity removed and her history washed away. They had led more similar lives than Sansa had once imagined they would.

 

She saved the world, her little sister, with her Stark looks and the steel in her fingers. 

 

_ And she’ll kill Cersei. The woman you’ve wanted dead most in the world, her blood will be another shade to add to Arya’s hands, her name another word ticked off Arya’s list. _

 

As difficult to read as always, the saviour of Winterfell walks up its lady, craning her neck to look her in the face.

 

“Perhaps I shall bring you back one of her pretty dresses, sister?” She says, and the humour is turned outwards this time, directed at someone who isn’t Sansa.

 

“No.” She replies, with a small smile. “Bring me back her head.”

 

\- - -

 

The thud of his weight against the bench heralds his arrival.

 

“Heard you’re a knight now.”

 

She swallows the sudden nervousness. It’s been a long night, and she’s had more to drink than perhaps she should have to keep her wits about her. She doesn’t want to fight. She wants to stay near the fire, and listen to the chatter of others.

 

“You heard correctly.”

 

Sandor Clegane grunts, squinting at her in amusement. 

 

“Don’t tell me you, of all people, disapprove.”

 

He snorts. “Hardly. At least now I can say I lost my ear to a knight, instead of a woman.”

 

She smiles coldly. “Both are still true.”

 

He sighs. He’s neglecting to make eye contact, which is surprising, considering her experience of him is as someone bullish and aggressive. She waits for him to say what he clearly came here to.

 

“Little girls don’t live long in our world.” His voice is a low growl, but he still isn’t looking at her, instead choosing to stare down into his ale. 

 

“I made it far enough.”

 

“That’s right. Because you’re a tough bitch. You made sure to knock the fuckers down when they were still boys so they had no guts to try again when they were men. You had an early start…”

 

His eyes, dark and deep-set, one half-shut by his burn scar, settle on someone at the top end of the hall. Brienne turns to follow his gaze, and sees Sansa and Arya Stark slipping back into the feast together.

 

“But they’re still alive…”

 

He must be drunk, she thinks. He sounds... _ sentimental? _

 

“Through fucking everything, through the death of their whole family, the kingdom going to shit, enemies around every corner and the end of the world itself, _they’re still alive_ …”

 

The eye she can see properly catches the firelight and looks, for only a second, glazed and watery.

 

“They’re made of tough stuff too. That little one ran circles round me, taught me a thing or two about being kind, and being cruel, not that I can say it ever stuck.”

 

He drinks deeply. Brienne watches him closer, saying nothing.

 

“I protected her until she didn’t need anymore protecting. She’s a fast learner, and a stubborn little shit, like you were, I imagine.”

 

There was a compliment in there, somewhere, she thinks.

 

“But the older one…”

 

Brienne watches Sansa turn to murmur something to Jon. He smiles with amusement, and she raises an eyebrow. Her hair is mostly loose, with only the front locks twisted out of her face, and her gown is heavy, grey and elegant; she is every bit the Lady of Winterfell. 

 

“She was never a fighter. She’s been knocked about more than most, but she’s still here too. And that’s partly down to you, Tarth.” His eyes flick to her now.

 

_ So that’s what this is; a... thank you _ ?

 

“I swore to her mother I would keep her safe.”

 

He squints at her. 

 

“I vowed to Catelyn that I would bring her daughters home.”

 

“And you did.”

 

“And I did. Eventually.” She watches Sansa as the lute player comes forward and sings a song for her. She listens politely, her eyes shifting focus to the history in his lyrics.

 

_ Do not go up to the hills, my dear _

_ The ground there blossoms with red. _

_ The castle rings with songs, my dear _

_ Songs of the bastards’ dead. _

 

_ The wolf’s come home, to take his throne, _

_ The blood is thinned by snow. _

_ The hill’s the place where it lies the thickest, _

_ And where all the red flowers grow. _

 

“She is Catelyn’s daughter.  She is brave and brilliant. I...grew very fond of her. I am sworn to her now, as I was sworn to her mother. And I serve her for something more than a sword pledged long ago.”

 

“They get under your skin, the Starks.” He mutters bitterly, dryly, as he takes another drink. He must be several flagons in if he’s revealing something so personal to someone who must have once seemed like the last thing he’d ever see.

 

“I heard if you lie with a Stark, your bastards grow wolf fangs.” Ser Jaime sits down heavily next to The Hound. “I assume that isn’t true, unless the dragon likes to be bitten.”

 

“Good evening, Ser Jaime. And how much have you have to drink?” 

 

“Enough to want to join  _ this  _ conversation.” He swings his head between the two of them.

 

They’d been sitting together most of the night. She wonders where he’s just come from.

 

“And I’ve had too little to want to stay.” Says The Hound, gruffly, swinging his leg over the bench so he can leave the way Jaime just entered. The Lannister swivels back to face Brienne, eyebrows drawn together.

 

“Do you think I offended him?”

 

Brienne laughs. “I don’t think anyone’s capable of that.”

 

“I’m beginning to think people are shunning our company, Ser Brienne.” He says. It’s true that they’re alone again, Pod having gone off with two serving girls who’d been eyeing him for most of the night. In fact, most of the feast seems to consist of pairs of people; Varys and Tyrion have drifted back together to talk in hushed tones. Sansa is giving Arya what looks like a firm word while the younger girl flicks her knife into the tabletop. Daenerys is speaking with her handmaiden, Missandei, Brienne recalls. Even the Unsullied seem to be in pairs. Tormund, thankfully, is over with Ser Davos, slapping him on the back so hard the older man spills his drink.

 

Ser Jaime looks pleasantly drunk, smiling at her a little inanely, with a distant look in glassy eyes. She must be a little drunk too, because the thought makes her laugh. Her laughter proves infectious, and soon they’re cackling inelegantly for no real reason. He drops his forehead to the table with a  _ thunk _ . She rolls her eyes.

 

She feels warm, settled in her clothes in a way she usually isn’t without her armour. The company, though eccentric, has been good, and she is slowly adjusting to being a pseudo-hero. People don’t just fear her because of her strength, or stare after her because of her appearance. She’s proven herself at last, and the title of knight feels as sure and comforting as the blade had on her shoulder.

 

The blade of the man before her. She’s growing comfortable with him too. She never thought there’d be a time when she’d seek out Jaime Lannister’s conversation, let alone look forward to it. She remembers his quips on the battlements and his strikes on the battlefield. She remembers being pressed up against him, their heartbeats the only thing she could hear over the roar of dread in her ears, battling with an endless army of  _ things _ that used to be people. She remembers his sword snatching her from death so many times, and then her determination to return the favour. She remembers seeing his face, grimy and terrified, through the dark and the smoke, and how it filled her with hope;  _ we are both here, and still fighting. _ Their first fight had been against one another, on a bridge in the Riverlands, for petty reasons of personal goals, and their last was side by side, against death itself, until they were two of the few people left standing, the two halves of Ned Stark’s greatsword finally reunited, and used to defend his home and his country.

 

The Kingslayer and the Maid of Tarth; allies, comrades... _ friends _ …

 

No wonder she’s grinning like a fool when he looks at her with such ridiculous fondness.  _ How did we get here, ser? _

 

She must be drunk.

 

She stands, and sways as she gets her balance. He watches her, amused, a grin stretching across his face, his perfect Lannisteer teeth glinting at her like a taunt.

 

“The night has gone on for too long, I fear. I am... _ out of sorts _ …” She says, fighting back more laughter.

 

“Of course!” He surges to his own feet, and also stumbles a little at the change in height. “I shall escort you to your chambers, my lady. It would not do for you to get lost or be led astray.” He says, adopting an affected and preposterous tone. She laughs again, reaching out to hold his shoulder, steadying him. The closeness makes her smile shrink into something softer.

 

“I know the way back to my own chamber, Ser Jaime.”

 

“Can you be  _ certain _ of that, Ser Brienne?”

 

When she was fourteen, her father had sent her on a hunting trip on the mainland. It was more to teach her endurance and horsemanship than tracking, since they caught little more than a few rabbits and one small doe, but it had been a welcome jaunt away from the island nevertheless as her adventurous spirit bloomed. There were other members of houses from the Stormlands in her party, including Colrin Buckler of Bronzegate, who was two years her senior, but a lot smaller than her. He had thick hair that was dark at the roots but curled blonde at the ends, and was freckled in a way that was generally thought to be pleasing. He had been interested in her family home, and they had spoken at length about jousting. She remembers smiling with her lips pressed together so her mouth wouldn’t look as large, and making sure to blink a lot, like she’d seen other ladies do. By the end of the two weeks, she had noticed the staring and sniggering from the other young lords and squires, but paid them no mind now that she had a friend. As they parted ways, Colrin Buckler raised himself to his tiptoes and kissed her on the cheek, and for a second she didn’t breathe, and thought herself perfect. Then he turned to the other boys, and finally allowed himself to laugh with them. She never heard from him again, not that she wanted to, returning to Tarth red with shame and weeping with bitter anger and embarrassment. 

 

Renly hadn’t laughed when he’d asked her to dance. He’d smiled, and was charming. He accepted her into his kingsguard and never once ridiculed her for her appearance, her awkward manner or her gender. He’d had a soft face like Colrin Buckler, all rounded, pretty edges, but his eyes had been genuine. She feels the familiar stab of grief and inadequacy as she recalls watching, helplessly, as the shadow skewered him through the heart.

 

Jaime is unlike both, she thinks, as he walks her to her chamber, talking loudly and inconsequentially the whole way while she thinks quietly beside him. She doesn’t realise they’ve arrived until he leans, or more accurately falls, against the wall beside her door. 

 

“ _ My lady _ .” He says, gesturing to her chamber. 

 

“Thank you, ser. You are a knight through and through. I doubt I would have made it here in one piece on my own.”

 

“My pleasure.” He says, suddenly a little more sober. 

 

“I hope you do not pay for the night’s festivities too harshly in the morning.” She says.

 

“Same to you.”

 

“Goodnight, Ser Jaime.”

 

“Goodnight, Ser Brienne.”

 

They stand facing each other, neither making a move to leave. The candles lighting the hallway flicker in their bracket, elongating and merging their shadows.

 

Sometimes he’ll look at her like he’s trying to memorise her face, as he is now. It makes her uncomfortable and self-conscious, like he’s mapping all the flaws as he comes across them, storing them as ammunition. She’s spent years hardening her skin against such ammunition. 

 

He pushes himself off the wall with slightly less grace than he usually would, and straightens his spine in an attempt to combat the unease in his eyes. She sees him swallow, and when he moves closer, she has to physically stop herself from bolting.

 

He doesn’t meet her eye, and instead presses a kiss to her cheek with false confidence that just manages to carry the action off. Her throat closes up.  _ Colrin, and his sharp teeth and witty conversation and pretty hair and interested eyes. Colrin, who’d helped her across streams like a lady and sparred with her like a man. Colrin, who had said they would perhaps know each other forever. Colrin, who had kissed her cheek as the final punchline of a fortnight-long joke, the joke of maybe seeing Brienne of Tarth as anything other than a subject worthy of ridicule. _

 

Jaime doesn’t turn and release the laughter he’s been holding back the whole time. Jaime doesn’t let a cruel smirk break across his face, or menace enter his eyes. Jaime’s expression gets softer as he pulls away, perhaps surprised at his own actions, perhaps waiting for her response. Jaime’s hand balls in a nervous fist and his breath leaves him softly and shakily. 

 

Jaime’s eyes are full of tender feeling, not malicious teasing.

 

“Goodnight.” She says again, and her voice is choked and strained, struggling to keep the breath in her lungs.

 

She gives him a last loaded glance before slipping into her chamber and shutting the door behind her. 

  
  



	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heya! Final party chapter done, now shit gets real. Jon and Daenerys was the least convincing romance I have seen portrayed on the show, for a multitude of reasons, but for the sake of this story we are giving them the benefit of the doubt, at least until they both get their shit together. Thanks, as always, for sticking with me and reading! x

Tired and a little dejected, Daenerys looks for an excuse to retire to bed, but finds her eyes drifting to Jon Snow instead. He has been speaking civilly with Sansa, and humouring the antics of his bannermen, but now catches the Dragon Queen’s gaze and holds it. She gives an authoritative tilt of her head, and he nods his understanding. When she rises, nodding to Missandei to stay where she is, Jon follows her with his eyes, and then with his person a few seconds later.

 

She leads him into an antechamber; a lofty and mostly-empty room with small, high windows and a fire in the hearth, but no candles lit on the walls. There is a cushioned bench, a snarling wolf worked into the largest wall in shards of different colored stone, and an ornate cupboard with a fly-blown mirror on one of its doors. She turns to face him, seeking out the warmth of the fire as she often does when entering a room. He stands to attention, as if awaiting orders, not quite looking her in the eye, and it irks her.

 

“Have you had a pleasant evening?”

 

“Yes, your grace. Have you?”

 

She smiles tightly, allowing him to see her true emotions. He smiles back, laughing a little and relaxing his posture.

 

“It’s not for everyone. Northmen have a tendency to eat too much, drink too much and talk too much.”

 

“They have more than earnt the revelry.” She takes a few steps towards him. “And it is rather wonderful to see you in your native environment. Your men have seemingly endless respect for you.”

 

He frowns, and she quickly corrects herself. “As they should. It is well-deserved.”

 

He nods appreciatively, glancing down. She sees her own jealousy reflected back at her. It looks absurd, and she is suddenly ashamed. He has been good to her, she thinks. He has been loyal, loving and honest. As far as she is aware, he has told no one of his heritage, which leads her to believe that he genuinely does have no interest in the throne, his  _ birthright _ . 

 

“You are a good leader, Jon. I know your record causes you to doubt yourself, but I see the love your people have for you, and the firm but fair hand you rule with. I know you don’t wish to be worshipped, but you care about your people enough to know that leading is necessary to ensure their prosperity. You should be immensely proud, as I am of you.”

 

His smile is warm; the tentative,  _ kindling _ warmth of a Northerner. She has noticed that most of them, even the women, keep their emotions close and shrouded, restrained and obedient, small but powerful when they eventually bubble to the surface. She thinks of the subtle shift in Jon’s lips and eyebrows that is the difference between solemnity and amusement. She thinks of Sansa’s distant, controlled anger. She thinks of Ser Jorah’s rare and pleasing smile. 

 

“Thank you, your grace.”

 

There is turning in her lower stomach, like the embers of a fire. She had thought it was displeasure, or boredom, caused by the feast, but here, under his gentle, loyal gaze, it becomes something else. When she reaches out her hand, he takes it. When she moves closer he lets her. When she brushes her fingers against his cheek, he sighs quietly. This dance is familiar to her, and has always been as easy as it is rewarding. She feels her eyelids growing heavy, her desire boiling, her need to be worshipped through touch reinvigorated. She leans close, and kisses him just shy of his lips. The suggestion has the desired effect, and he turns his head to kiss her properly. 

 

She thinks of how his resolve has been steadfast; how his knowledge of their shared lineage has driven him to keep her stubbornly at arm’s length, but now, after a night of drink, food and friends, his honour, or rather his reservations, seem to be significantly weakened. She accepts his touch like water in the Red Waste.

 

It seems only seconds before she is wrapped in his arms, pressed against his body, drawing the love she needs from his mouth and giving it back to him in turn. The soft and sure pressure of his lips makes her sigh, her heart aching and her skin prickling, as his fingers slide into her hair and her hands grip him with a strength that is impossible to misinterpret. This is a dance they have engaged in many times before, a rhythm that is now familiar, with easy passion instead of uneven discovery. She pulls herself from his lips to invite him up to her chambers, but it seems the loss of contact delivers a cold wash of reason to his system, and he speaks before she can.

 

“Forgive me, your grace, the wine must have got to me.”

 

She moves closer, brushing their noses together to stay close to his lips. “There is nothing to forgive,” she says, and then, “I want you still, Jon Snow. I want you  _ now. _ ”

 

His breath is shaky on the exhale as it brushes across her mouth. She feels him tremble, and the sigh that follows is not as promising as she had hoped the sound would be. 

 

“I...I can’t, my queen. Not now, not yet. The news is too fresh…” His excuses are whispered into the tiny space between them, but they sound thunderous in her ear.

 

_ He cannot help but think about it. He will not reach for me now that he knows we share blood. He shall not lie with me, because he cannot stop himself from thinking of me as family… _

 

She is disappointed, bitter, regretful, but mostly angry. She will not be cast aside so easily, and on such a technicality. What she feels for Jon was more instant than with Drogo, more consuming than with Daario, and feels more urgent and greedy than any desire she has felt other than that for the Iron Throne. Him turning from her, as he does now, extracting himself from her embrace, feels more painful and unfair than she can cope with tonight.

 

“I understand.” She says, attempting to soften the words despite hissing them through gritted teeth. “Good night, Jon Snow. I shall see you in the morning.”

 

Without allowing him a response, she leaves the antechamber with her head held high, not even glancing back to see his unseated expression.

 

\- - -

 

“Where is Ser Jorah?”

 

“He was here only a moment ago, your grace. Why? Is something the matter?” Missandei scrambles to her feet as soon as Daenerys returns to her seat in the hall. Despite their close and genuine friendship, old habits die hard, and displays of respect for her queen are second nature to Missandei. Daenerys sees the concern in her huge, golden eyes.

 

“No, nothing is the matter. I am tired. I would have Ser Jorah escort me to my chambers” She feels guilty for asking her question with no preamble, and with such a sharp tone.  _ This is not Missandei’s fault _ .

 

“Shall I send someone to find him?”

 

“Yes. Thank you.” 

 

She glances round the room at the slowly thinning crowd. She sees Jon reemerge from the door she has just come through. He looks sheepish, and when she catches his eye, he looks away after a split second, and goes to sit with Samwell Tarly, who is falling asleep against the shoulder of his wildling wife. 

 

Before Missandei can locate someone to make the request, Ser Jorah appears, as if summoned. When he glances to Daenerys, as he always does as soon as he enters a room, she indicates for him to approach.

 

“Is everything alright,  _ khaleesi _ ?”

 

“I grow weary. I wish to go to bed. Will you escort me, ser?”

 

He gives a small bow of his head. “With pleasure.”

 

She turns to Missandei. “You have my permission to retire as well.” She glances across to Grey Worm, who has taken up station guarding one of the doors, although that may have been to escape from Tormund Giantsbane, and his constant questions concerning  _ something _ that Grey Worm, as an Unsullied, lacks. “To your own room, or otherwise.” She says, and Missandei smiles, blushing.

 

She can tell Ser Jorah has noticed something is amiss, and perhaps others in her service would have kept their concerns to themselves, but not him, not after all this time.

 

“Is there a reason for your hasty departure,  _ khaleesi _ ?”

 

The low rumble of his voice is a welcome balm against her ears, that hurt from the constant ringing of the feast.

 

“There are many, but mostly I am just tired.” She says, walking a pace in front of him, with purpose, towards her waiting bed.

 

He stops outside of her chamber and waits to see her inside, as usual, but instead she holds the door open in a clear invitation.

 

“Come in.”

 

He doesn’t question her order, and instead just obeys. Drink has the effect of making people want to get to... _the heart of things_.

 

She shuts the door behind him, and he stands, a little awkwardly, in the entryway. 

 

She begins to remove her jewellery. She is glad that she will not have Missandei undress her tonight; she would much rather do it herself.

 

_ Anyway, to the heart of things _ .

 

“Jon Snow is not Ned Stark’s bastard.” She starts with. Somewhere between asking to be escorted, a completely unnecessary gesture, and right now, she has decided to tell Ser Jorah without actually considering it.

 

“In fact, he is not a bastard at all. His parents were Lyanna Stark...and my brother, Rhaegar Targaryen. They were married in secret. His true name is Aegon.” She is focused on unbraiding her hair, now her jewellery is shed, and so doesn’t look to Jorah to see his reaction to the news.

 

“He is the rightful heir to the Seven Kingdoms.” She says, finally, like an exhausted sigh, as she turns to him at last. 

 

Ser Jorah, as expected, shows little surprise on his features other than a concerned furrow of his brow, his eyes distant as he takes in the information.

 

“Who told you this?”

 

“He did. I know it’s true, though. Everything fits. Bran told him, and Samwell Tarly confirmed it. He’s been tracing Jon's lineage in the Citadel for months before he arrived in the North.”

 

Ser Jorah glances towards the closed door, and lowers his voice.

 

“Are you certain this is not a ploy to unseat your claim?”

 

“Bran has no reason to lie.”

 

“He is Jon’s family.”

 

“He is something much more than that. I cannot deny that, not after the battle. He is barely human anymore, let alone house-loyal enough to meddle in politics.”

 

“What if that were a lie too?”

 

She shakes her head. “I doubt it. Besides, Rhaegal is... _ connected _ to Jon. He is his rider, I think. Only Targaryens can ride dragons like that. The signs were all there I just didn’t see them.”

 

She faces the fire and closes her eyes, allowing him time to think over how he will advise her. She feels her body sinking, struggling to keep her posture regal, as fatigue drains what little motivation she has left.

 

“Will he press his claim?”

 

“No. He has sworn not to tell his family, and says he will support me as the rightful queen. He doesn’t want to rule.”

 

More grim silence follows. She turns to look at him. 

 

“Do you believe he is trustworthy?”

 

“I...think he is honest, yes. I think he is a man of his word. He will do as his honour commands above all else, however, so if you give him reason to doubt your ability to rule, he may turn on you, for the good of the majority. I feel he is more moral than he is loyal.”

 

“And why would he ever have reason to doubt my ability?” The bite is back in her words, but Ser Jorah doesn’t flinch.

 

“I don’t know,  _ khaleesi _ . You have never given me reason to doubt. As long as you are careful, exercise caution and mercy, and listen to your council, he will be faithful. You say he has Targaryen blood, but from what little I know of the man, he is every inch the Stark.”

 

She is doubtful, and it must show on her face. His voice softens.

 

“He is in love with you. That much is clear. As you are with him. He will not rebel against his heart for any petty reason, especially not for something as fickle as glory. Perhaps we should trust him for now, but be wary of him should things turn...sour.”

 

She raises tired eyes to his. 

 

“He turns from me now. He will keep me as a queen, but won’t have me as a woman. I suppose it is because I am his aunt, and that is a bond of blood in the North that is not to be confused with romance.”

 

He nods. She sees that he understands Jon’s decision. Despite the constant intermarrying of Northern houses, it seems the Westerosi are all much more opposed to incest than Viserys ever let her know. 

 

“I am sorry,  _ khaleesi _ .” He says, and he  _ means _ it, the masochistic fool. Rare a man is, she thinks, that would love someone who offers him so little, and love them so much more than himself. 

 

“There are bigger problems on the horizon.” She says, and it comes out as another heavy sigh. She allows her shoulders to drop a little, and she sees his eyes catch it. He swallows, but says nothing. She cannot stand to see him look so grim when he had been happier earlier tonight, speaking with the men from his homeland and joking with Tyrion and Tormund like old friends. This is  _ not _ his burden to bear.

 

_ It is, _ she thinks, _ every burden of yours, is also his. And he wouldn’t have it any other way. _

 

She tries to smile, but her face is tired from holding itself in the correct place. She approaches where he stands without hesitation and leans her forehead against his chest, curling into his body, sighing again. Her face must be somewhere near his scar, she thinks.

 

“You are tired,  _ khaleesi _ .” He says softly; half-pity, half-fondness. She laughs a little, bitterly, and nods against the fabric of his tunic.

 

“I am exhausted, ser.”

 

“Rest. I will tell Missandei to leave you be, and will have a guard stationed outside.”

 

She nods again, her eyes slipping shut. “Thank you.”

 

When he sees she has no immediate intention of moving, he cautiously embraces her. Having him wrapped around her, familiar and sturdy, alive despite everything, fills her with relieved happiness and a strange sort of longing. It should be Jon holding her upright when she is too weak to stand alone, not Ser Jorah, of whom she always asks too much, and who is her commander and her friend, but not her lover. 

 

Jorah says she should trust Jon, and perhaps she will, or at least she will try. She will trust Jon, because Ser Jorah advised her to, and she trusts him more than anyone.

 

“You look younger.” She murmurs, without moving from his arms.

 

“ _ Khaleesi _ ?”

 

“Since the battle. I thought it was strange that you recovered so quickly, how you regained your strength so soon, but it’s more than that. You aren’t as strong, you’re  _ stronger _ . You stand taller for longer, you look healthier, your scars are gone, and you look younger.”

 

“I...had not noticed the change in my appearance,  _ khaleesi _ . But yes, I certainly feel stronger.”

 

She knows his face. It is etched into her history and her subconscious, branded into her memory from having looked upon it almost every day for the last seven years. She had noticed, once the panic of potentially losing him had receded and she could look at him properly, that something was different. There is less gray in his beard, his hair is thicker, his eyes are more expressive and vibrant, and the lines of age on his face are fewer, and less deep. It is a subtle difference that most would not see, but she did. At first she thought she was imagining it, seeing him aglow with life because her mind was so relieved that he was still living that it coloured her perception of him, but since she has convinced herself that was not the case, she has been ruminating on possible explanations.

 

“The Red Priestess crumbled away before my eyes when she took off her necklace, as if it was what was keeping her alive. Maybe, it was what was keeping her young and beautiful. I think it is more than just dragonfire that has formed you anew, my knight. The jewel was like a shot of vitality, perhaps.”

 

“Perhaps. I am no clearer on how these things work, I’m afraid, but once the throne is yours, I may have some time to try and find answers. The Citadel must have something more concrete on the Lord of Light than fireside stories whispered by Beric Dondarrion.”

 

She nods, burying further into his chest. “Yes, you must do that. I hope for my own sake that she has given me the gift of extra years for you. I wouldn’t have age taking you before the dust has settled.”

 

He laughs, and she feels it rumble through her pleasantly. “I’m not  _ that _ old,  _ khaleesi _ , I don’t think you need to worry about that just yet.”

 

“I am teasing you.” 

 

He laughs again, and the elongated embrace feels suddenly a lot easier and more natural. There is no reason why she should keep her distance now he is, for the moment, out of reach of death. They are friends,  _ old _ friends, and they trust and respect one another. Why shouldn’t they be intimate like this? For all her fire and dragon blood and fate-deigned power, she is still human.

 

He leaves her to rest. She almost asks him to be her sentinel for the night, before remembering that he is a lord now, and not her bodyguard. Besides, he may not appear so, but she imagines he is tired too, and they all need to rest in preparation for what is to come.

 

On the morrow they must start preparing to leave. Soon, she must ride her child towards potential death, and wreak havoc on a fleet of thousands, to give her people a chance to slip through and establish a base on Cersei’s doorstep. A single, tiny discrepancy would bring their master plan crashing down around them, and she could lose her most valuable allies, and the only people in the world who she truly loves on a personal level. As she lies in bed, exhaustion dragging her deeper into the covers, she feels how dangerous it is for a queen to care, and how much she really does have to lose.

 

_ Jon, Jorah, Missandei, Grey Worm, my dragons, my khalasar, Tyrion, Davos, even the Starks _ …

 

How many would still stand once the war was over?

  
  



	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry if action isn't your thing and you're only here for kissing and angst, but I had a lot of fun writing this chapter. In conceding to write a Season 8 fix-it on this scale, I also signed up for writing more plot than just characters staring longingly at each other. If you wanna skip, I totally understand. If not, I figured this is what would happen if Season 8 had been remotely realistic, and if Dany hadn't ~forgotten~ about the Iron Fleet and just gone at night.
> 
> Also, I am aware that travel times, though perhaps less fucked than in the show, are still not accurate to canon, but honestly the calculations got too confusing after a while, so they're actually still pretty close. Don't think about it too hard, it's fan fiction.
> 
> TRANSLATIONS ARE AT THE END OF THE CHAPTER
> 
> Thanks again for all your support! xxxx

Daenerys feels more than just the winter winds biting at her skin. The almost unbearable apprehension has spread from her chest to her stomach, and now permeates her entire body. She has eaten little and drank only what is necessary to keep her alert. She has slept a few hours at best, unable to sit still or put her mind at ease since the Northmen left a month before, and a ship carrying a small guard, Davos Seaworth, Arya Stark, Jaime Lannister, Sandor Clegane and Jorah Mormont left two weeks ago. They’d be at Dragonstone the following evening, if the winds continued.

 

The afternoon is a pale and hostile one. She walks in silence with Jon Snow beyond the grounds of Winterfell, past the empty remains of her _khalasar'_ s camp, over frozen grass and mud hard as iron, until they crest the hill and approach her children, who stir when they see their mother, puffs of smoke rising from their nostrils. A satchel secured to her overcoat is all she carries with her. Jon’s pack is larger, with enough supplies to keep them alive and vaguely comfortable should they need to wait on the mainland. Dragonstone, for all they know, is still being held by Greyjoy men, but Daenerys knows Cersei will have sent Euron to try and capture it. Euron’s forces were last seen at full strength, meaning that, if he succeeded, he is holding Dragonstone with few enough men that they should be able to take it back once reinforcements arrive on the morrow. 

 

As she places her hand on Drogon’s snout, feeling the strength and heat of his breath as he greets her, she thinks of the last lonely days in Winterfell, with only a few Starks to keep her company. Her Dothraki and Unsullied have departed, and Missandei was sent with them to accompany Grey Worm at the front of the forces, and to translate for them as they traverse the country on foot. She said goodbye to Ser Jorah last, as he headed for White Harbour.

 

_ “We should be better at saying farewell by now, khaleesi.” _

 

_ “I think we’re beginning to get the hang of it.” _

 

She remembers his gentle smile, and then the fear barely hidden, his creased brow, his heavy swallow.

 

_ “Khaleesi, please-” _

 

_ “I will not die, Ser Jorah, not before I see my throne. There is too much to do to be shot out of the sky by Euron Greyjoy.” _

 

_ “All the same, it would soothe my fears to hear it.” _

 

_ “I will be careful, my bear, I promise. As must you be. I will carve you a path of safety, and meet you soon, at Dragonstone.” _

 

_ “Until then, my queen.” _

 

And they had gone, riding to White Harbour with all haste. They can’t risk ravens, so she doesn’t know where exactly they are. 

 

_ I have to have faith. Their journey is not the most dangerous, and they are well-equipped to defend themselves. _

 

She misses the bustling company that she had once developed a distaste for. Tyrion is travelling with Varys, Grey Worm and the Unsullied, and his endless talking has left a silence that makes her fidgety and uneasy. She misses Missandei’s soft words spoken in her soothing, brilliant voice. She misses the assurance of Grey Worm’s watchful gaze, his steadfast resolve and the softness in his centre. She misses Ser Jorah’s council and company the most, suddenly lacking him after spending more time with him in the past few months than she has since the time of Khal Drogo.

 

Jon has been a comfort. He, so in his element, Lord of Winterfell, surrounded by lands and people familiar, and her, isolated and alone, far from her home and battered by the cold. He reached out for her, familially, and she accepted his company in whatever form it took. She is, in some ways, grateful at his reluctance to be intimate with her; he has bent the knee, he is her subject, and he must be reminded that she is his queen, and not his equal.

 

And still she dreams. She sees her ancestors, one after the other, upon the Iron Throne, their chests ripped open and their blood, all emerald and scorching wildfire, melting and warping the blades as it leaks from their bodies. She sees her son and her  _ khal _ , atop a mountain of slave collars and horse corpses, shouting to her in a tongue she has forgotten entirely, huge and terrible and beautiful, so far above her she cannot reach them. She sees her own hands become claws, her pale flesh tearing as scales and talons break through her bones, splitting open her ribcage and bursting her veins, distorted and horrific, and  _ agonisingly _ painful, and she cannot touch anything without it crumbling under her uncontrollable strength. She sees a ship with an undead captain, staring out at a mirror-still sea with vacant blue eyes, and as she boards, she sees his crew are wights, turning to face her, rasping around the rotting flesh of their own throats, and she tries to return to land, but they are adrift, lost, in an endless body of saltwater. She runs to Jon and he embraces her, his warmth chasing away the bitter cold, and then feels his blade slide between her ribs, and his face changes to resemble others; Sansa, Tyrion, Viserys, Cersei. The lion queen smirks, her eyes green and boiling, as she hisses  _ ‘blood of my blood’ _ in High Valyrian, which Daenerys can barely hear over the sound of her own inhuman scream.

 

And sometimes, a tent. A lone, desolate tent, as the Dothraki use, sewn together from horsehide and crouched in an endlesss wasteland, offering shade. It appears to her, cropping up at random intervals in her dreams, asserting itself by sitting silently in the background, emerging from mist or waves or noise, and watching, waiting, and yet she wakes before she can get closer, before it can become anything more than something out-of-place in the distance.

 

“Are you alright, Dany?”

 

She looks to Jon. She wonders if he dreams of wolves and White Walkers, of summers that never end, harvests that never fail, loved ones that never die. She nods.

 

“Yes.” He stands beside Rhaegal like it is completely natural. He was once scared of her children, now he seems to be claiming one. 

 

“There is no point in delaying.” She says, resolutely. She gives Drogon a final scratch on his scales, like dragging her nails across stone but he seems to appreciate it, and uses his outstretched wing to climb onto his back. She sees Jon doing the same, albeit with less grace.

 

“It will be several hours before we reach the coast.” She shouts across to him. “If anything is amiss during our flight, fly Rhaegal in front of me. Otherwise, let me lead, and you keep watch behind. We need to be prepared for anything. An ambush is possible, even with us in the air.”

 

“Understood.”

 

“Good luck, Jon.”

 

“You too, your grace.”

 

Taking to the air is like slipping into a scalding bath. The wind bruises her lungs, the speed makes her eyes water and the height causes her heart to race, and yet she is  _ alive _ . She is not suited to water or land, she is a creature of the air, a dragon as surely as her children are. She knows Jon feels the rewarding rush of excitement and fear that comes with riding, but finds the experience less than comfortable and certainly not something that comes naturally. He may be a Targaryen, but he is not a dragon, as she it. She drinks in the sight of the shrinking ground like the finest Qartheen wine, the sturdy body of Drogon rippling beneath her like her own heartbeat. Finally she is useful again,  _ free _ again.  _ Finally _ she can take another ferocious step on her journey to her throne.

 

They fly through the day and into the night, twilight stealing what little breath she still has as it casts the land,  _ her _ land, in an amber glow, like seeing the hills through dripping honey. As night falls and the dragons plough on, she catches sight of Jon adjusting his position. She is stiff too, her knees clamped round the spines of her dragon, her muscles sore with keeping her upright, but they press on nevertheless. 

 

Then the horizon begins to glitter and swell, spreading out like ghost grass, rippling from where the land falls away; they have reached the coast.

 

Instantly alert, her eyes sweep the expanse of water before them. Her heart leaps into her throat. The Iron Fleet is nowhere to be seen.

 

She slows Drogon down, sweeping a radius of a few leagues over the sea in every direction and, on finding no sign, circles him back around to hover over the land, his great wings keeping them in the air as she waits for Rhaegal to join them. 

 

“They must be further South, closer to Blackwater Bay.” Jon shouts, over the sound of beating wings and ocean wind.

 

Daenerys thinks, and shakes her head. If she were anticipating an attack on her city, surely she would make sure that her enemies had no foothold. 

 

“No. They must be further North, defending Dragonstone.” She shouts back.

 

“Are you certain?”

 

_ No _ , she thinks. “Yes.” She says. She can barely see him now, the dark closing in around them, thick and fast. 

 

“Come, we are running out of time.”

 

She wheels Drogon around and heads North. Her thoughts are a flurry of fear. What if the Iron Fleet has moved unexpectedly? What if there is a hidden agenda that all of her allied council have missed? What if Euron Greyjoy has already intercepted the ship carrying their hope of an assassination, and murdered every valuable man and woman on board?

 

_ If they have killed my friends, they will die amid flames and screaming. I will show no man mercy if a single one of them has been harmed. _ The words rise in her head in dooming Dothraki.

 

They fly for another hour or so, but time slips through her mind like water as it rolls and rolls, considering every possible, terrible reason why the Iron Fleet is not stationed where they believed it was. A wordless cry from Jon draws her attention to the present.

 

She searches in the gloom for him atop Rhaegal’s shadowy bulk flying alongside her, and catches a glimpse of him in the thin moonlight. He is indicating up the coast.

 

Tucked into a bay, anchored, is a fleet large enough that it could only be the Iron Fleet. Pinpricks of light from the ships reach out in the darkness, but otherwise, it is immensely well hidden. Had Jon not been there, she wonders if she’d have found it at all. They are  _ much _ further North than Daenerys expected, worryingly close to Dragonstone, but the Fleet is stationed for the night, and the gods have been good enough to obscure the moon with a thin but constant cover of cloud. Some light creeps through, but mostly Daenerys is grateful that the forms of her dragons will blend into the dark sky.

 

She looks to Jon. They have discussed the plan of action to avoid unnecessary shouting. She turns Drogon from the sea and decides to approach over land, so they will be hidden until the last possible moment. She hears Rhaagal behind her, and wills both of her children to remain silent as they swoop closer to the ground. She holds her breath. Her eyes smart as she pins them open, searching for danger. She grips Drogon’s spines more tightly, putting her faith once more in the unfathomable power of her children. Her life, her throne, her kingdom, is in their hands now.

 

There is silence. There is the gentle lapping of waves, shrunk by the shelter of the bay. There is the drowsy footfalls of watchmen on deck. There is unknowing calm, and then there is fire.

 

Drogon swoops into a nosedive as they plummet from out of the shelter of the land, his huge jaws parting, the flames brought forth an angry brightness against the still-dark night. The dragonfire tears straight through the main bulk of the Fleet, snapping masts, scorching planks, melting artillery and reducing sails to ash in a matter of seconds. The men on deck barely have time to scream before they are eviscerated. The first thing the dragon does is spew a line of concentrated fire across every ship it can reach, specifically targeting the scorpions at their bows and sterns. There is suddenly a wall of sound; flammable cargo exploding, water boiling, wood splintering, her dragons screeching, and the mutes on board making gargled, rough sounds of fear. By the time the Fleet knows what is upon them, it is too late. Drogon darts back and forth, banking left and right and weaving among the wreckage with surprising agility for his enormous bulk, setting ships and men alight with a mighty roar. The smell, the heat, the wordless screaming; it bubbles in Daenerys’ blood and forces its way out of her mouth in a primal battlecry. It is music to her ears. Her enemies scream because she is destroying them.

 

As the scorpions left undamaged turn towards her, Rhaegal appears from the gloom, green scales turned bronze in the glow of the burning ships, and protects his brother and mother with his own burst of fire. A few bolts are loosed, one even grazes Drogon’s flank, but he and his rider are unsettled for only a moment before his full fury is turned back on the Fleet. Daenerys has no way of knowing if this is the Iron Fleet in its entirety, but for now, all she can do it protect her family and her allies, and destroy every vessel here. Ash stings her eyes, smoke fills her chest, cries of terror and pain fall on deaf ears as she and Jon relentlessly pummel the Fleet with the power of the Targaryens, darting back inland when threatened only to reemerge and continue the assault from another direction.

 

As Daenerys flies closer, she sees one figure standing on the deck of the flagship, not attempting to run, not showing any signs of terror at all. Seeing the last of the scorpions crumbling under Rhaegal’s breath, Daenerys drops closer still, and focuses on the soot-stained, smirking face illuminated by the blaze of his burning fleet. Euron Greyjoy, looking mad in that he looks calm, stares up at Daenerys, and  _ laughs _ . 

 

“Oh you got me, Dragon Queen! I never thought I would see one in the flesh.” He looks awed, eyes wide and crazed as he stares at her child, hovering above him. “You are one crafty little cunt!” His words are mangled by the wind and other sounds surrounding them. And he laughs and laughs and laughs.

 

As the only non-mute, she confirms that this is Euron. His clothes are as plain as his men’s. His hair is heavily singed. He stands aboard his ruined ship as the hull gurlges, taking on water. He spreads his arms before her.

 

“We never stood a chance!” He says, but with such mirth she feels she has missed something. The paranoia stirs in her, and she wants the fight, the  _ slaughter, _ over and done with before she can fall victim to one of his tricks.

 

“ _ Dracarys.” _ She says, and Drogon scorches Euron where he stands. He doesn’t shrink away or run, he stands on deck, arms still outstretched, as he burns and  _ burns _ , and in the carnage she cannot tell if he is screaming or laughing. Her skin crawls nonetheless.

 

As the remaining ships start to smoke and sink, Jon flies Rhaegal beside her. 

 

“Is this all of them?” He shouts.

 

“It appears to be.”

 

“Shall we head for Dragonst-”

 

Rhaegal’s agonised cry rips through Jon’s words, and Daenerys can only process the sight of him, of  _ them _ , falling, falling,  _ falling _ …

 

Blood rains down on the bay from a bolt lodged in the juncture of Rhaegal’s wing. Daenerys barely registers that she’s screaming. Jon clings to the dragon’s back as he falls, pressing himself flat, as the sea rushes up to engulf them. The splash sends the burning ships listing. Drogon’s cry rips through the night, as he turns and blasts the last scorpion, positioned on a ship at the edge of what’s left of the Fleet, into splinters. 

 

Now the danger is eradicated, every ship burnt beyond the point of being a threat, Daenerys halts Drogon in the air and scans the sea for Jon. Her heart thuds against her ribcage, rage and grief causing tears to burn down ash-covered cheeks.  _ Another child. They’ve taken another child from me. This land, this cursed country, Jon Snow’s carelessness, has taken my smallest, my gentlest… _

 

_ And they may have taken Jon too... _

 

She cannot see him. Corpses float on the surface of the bay, survivors struggle to stay above water, making a break for land, but Jon’s grey fur cloak and black curls are nowhere to be seen. As she pulls Drogon around to peer deeper into the gloom where he and Rhaegal had vanished, something below the surface stirs. She swoops down immediately to get a closer look. Seconds drag to minutes in her panic.

 

For a moment, Drogon’s snout looks back at her from the black water, eyes bright and alive, and... _ getting bigger? _

 

She pulls back just in time, as Rhaegal’s head rushes up to meet her, breaking the surface with a shower of cold saltwater as he battles his way out of the sea. Blood pours from his wound, but the fall must have dislodged the bolt, because it no longer inhibits the movement of his wing. He valiantly drags himself into the air, throwing back his head and singing into the night, a call of pain and triumph. Still clinging to his back is a very small, very  _ soaked _ Jon Snow.

 

Her tears turn from agony to joy as her child returns to her, spreading his wings wide and throwing himself back into his task of destruction with a new, terrible vigour. She watches with frightened awe as what little of the Fleet remains is turned to ash and shrapnel before her eyes. She sees Jon regain his grip, and sit more upright astride Rhaegal, and she feels a rush of pride and affection for him so powerful that she swears she loves him as much as her children. After a few minutes, Rhaegal’s injury begins to take its toll, and Jon steers him towards land. The thrill of success keeps her going, Drogon reducing the Fleet to nothing, until the dawn peaks over the horizon and the full extent of the carnage is revealed to her. What little sympathy she might have had for the lives lost in the ambush is gone in the face of almost losing her child. She guides a tired Drogon back to the cliffs, and lands him beside his brother, resting a league or so inland. 

 

Daenerys scrambles down from her black and runs to her green. Jon is removing splinters of the bolt from the wound, his hands slippery with dragon blood. He turns to Daenerys and gives her a relieved, yet grim, smile. He looks wretched; still soaked to the skin, the water smearing the soot and smoke across his face, his clothing torn and his hair burnt unevenly on one side. 

 

“Are you alright?” She asks, because it is expected to put humans before dragons.

 

“Yeah. A bit cold, but I’ll be fine.”

 

Satisfied that he is telling the truth, she turns to Rhaegal. A low rumble, like a whine, bubbles up from his throat as his mother rests tender hands against the skin of his wing.

 

“Shh...ñuha nēdenka mēre…” She says to him. “You have done so well.”

 

The wound is deep, the bolt having lodged in the joint of his shoulder, but dragons are known for their fast healing, and she is relieved to see the wound will not be fatal.

 

“It worked…” Says Jon, still panting, scanning the dawn-washed land.

 

“Yes…” She shares his post-battle giddiness, although it is difficult to summon a smile as her dragon bleeds onto the grass.

 

“We need to head for Dragonstone.”

 

“No.” She says, immediately. “Rhaegal is not strong enough to safely make the flight.”

 

“Once news of this spreads, we’ll have enemies heading this way. The safest place to rest and recover is Dragonstone.”

 

“I won’t risk him flying in the open when he’s so weakened. If there are more ships, and more scorpions, he’d be a much easier, much slower target. No, he needs to rest for a few days. We stay right here.”

 

“In a few days, we’ll be overrun by Lannister men.”

 

“One day, then. I will not tire him anymore today. Drogon can protect us.”

 

“We are still too vulnerable. I’ll stay with Rhaegal, you take Drogon to Dragonstone.”

 

“I’m his  _ mother _ .” She hisses, turning to glare at Jon. Rhaegal’s eyes echo her hostility, sensing her rising anger. “I will  _ not _ abandon him here. You may fly to Dragonstone on Drogon if you wish, but I’m  _ not _ leaving his side until he has recovered at least a little.”

 

“Well, I am not leaving you here alone, with one wounded dragon.”

 

“Then we all stay. Drogon will protect us and his brother, and we can rest.”

 

“It is too exposed. Let us return to the coast and find a cave.”

 

“The dragons will shelter us. I don’t want to get any closer to the bay. You are right, there will be more men there once news travels. We are better off here, a fair distance away.”

 

He sighs, once more conceding victory. She feels the affection for him she felt earlier, so quickly doused by worry for her child whom he was left in charge of, simmer warm again as they slip into their common routine of him submitting to her will.

 

His pack is soaked, all food inside left almost inedible, but the flask still holds water, and she has enough supplies to last the day. After Daenerys soothes Rhaegal to sleep and assures herself that Drogon’s flank wound isn’t serious, she sends the latter off to bring food for him and his brother. 

 

“Remove your cloak, or you shall freeze.”

 

“I fear I’ll freeze either way.” 

 

She walks to him and unclasps the sodden fabric, dropping it from his shoulders. He shivers, even as they are sheltered from the wind by Rhaegal. Her stomach recoils at the thought of food, her nerves still high and her blood up, but she forces down some bread, and offers the rest to Jon. When Drogon returns, her heart softens as he nudges the blackened sheep carcass towards his wounded brother.

 

They rest in the curl of her children’s bodies, partially sheltered, definitely protected, and Jon reluctantly, yet without argument, lies close under the blanket with Daenerys, sharing body heat to fend off the shivering as they sleep.

 

When the battle high ebbs, she hears the screams again, overlayed with the singing of her dragons and the roar of the flames. She is alone in a sea of blood once more, reassuring herself that in order to swim, you first need to create an ocean.

 

The strings in her groan under the added strain, begging to snap to relieve the pressure, but her coin has not landed that way up, or at least has not yet landed at all, and she will not allow the fact of her flesh dictate her future. She thinks of her children and her wolf, her horse lords and her Unsullied freed men, her friends and her new family. She holds the glow of them, of hope of future happiness, out from where it is buried in her chest, better to light the dark path ahead. She lets the human rule the dragon, and dreams of dawn, not darkness.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "ñuha nēdenka mēre" means 'my bold one' in Valyrian.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Monday seems to be my upload day. So be it.
> 
> I'm catching up to myself, so I'll probably only update once a week now. Once September starts, I'll have much more time to write, so I should get back on track after that. 
> 
> Thank you for your continued support. Have some admin, and then some fluff x

It is a day and a half before Rhaegal is healed enough to satisfy Daenerys that they can make it back to Dragonstone. The cold has set firmly in her bones, and it feels appropriately final, like her body has settled into the mild discomfort of the land she intends to rule, the warmth and freedom of being an unknown foreign girl in Essos finally out of her system. They have run out of hard bread and dried meat, and Jon is reluctant to see them drink any more stream water, despite how close to the spring they found it. In the end, the hard ground and the nervous hunger to know what happened to the others on their approach to Dragonstone means Daenerys agrees to make the journey. They both ride Drogon, allowing his brother free rein to compensate for his injury, and, skimming the coastline, they see no sign of an enemy fleet. It seems they have destroyed the bulk of Euron’s forces, and with their captain gone, any stragglers are unlikely to have strategic offensive instructions. The first stage of their plan is accomplished, and now the more difficult, altogether more risky move looms on the horizon.

 

Apprehension brews once more as Dragonstone comes into view. She feels Jon’s grip on her waist tighten as Drogon soars towards their ancestral seat. She reels him in, guiding him round the island’s coast to check the harbour first. 

 

Four ships are moored; three Greyjoy, one Northern.

 

Still not wholly reassured, Daenerys lands Drogon on the cliffs, watching as him and his brother scramble down to find a cave to rest. She gives Rhaegal a final scrutinising look, seeing his wound is already healing over with new green scales, before walking towards the castle.

 

Their arrival was not subtle, and figures approach them from the keep. Jon reaches for Longclaw; from this distance, every silhouette could be an enemy. She feels her gut churn as she considers the ambush that could have met her men when they landed.

 

The figure at the front of the approaching party eventually comes into focus, and her chest heaves under the weight of her sigh, relief flooding her veins and warming her extremities.

 

She wants to run into his arms, but remembers herself. Ever a queen, such a display would be childish and inappropriate, but she sees Ser Jorah’s hands ball into fists at his sides, and thinks he’d perhaps like to do the same.

 

“ _ Khaleesi _ , you are alive...” He looks relieved, _proud_ , despite his best attempts to keep his expression neutral in the presence of others. “When you did not arrive yesterday, we feared the worst.”

 

“Rhaegal was injured, so I insisted we wait until he recovered enough to fly.”

 

“Will he be alright?”

 

“Yes, he is already regaining his strength.”

 

An awkward silence follows as Daenerys and Ser Jorah look at each other in mild disbelief and gratitude, and Ser Davos, Sandor Clegane and Ser Jaime nod at Jon, who takes his hand off his sword.

 

“The Fleet, my queen?” Asks Davos.

 

Her emotions are back under control, her voice is low and even, and her eyes are colder, as she addresses him. “Wiped out. You were right, they never saw us coming. It took all night, but from what we observed from the air, the Iron Fleet is gone.”

 

\- - - 

 

Dinner is somewhat pleasant; a smaller company than she grew accustomed to at Winterfell, and a less intimidating one, for her at least. She listens with mild interest to the jibes thrown back and forth between Jaime and The Hound, watches Arya skewer her meal on the point of her knife and examine it, and catches Jon’s eye more times that she should allow herself to. Ser Davos repeats the plan; he will smuggle them in through the tunnels under the Red Keep, under cover of darkness, and the four assassins will head through the labyrinth of dungeons, avoiding contact with guards as much as possible, creeping up through the servant passages detailed by The Hound, Tyrion Lannister and Ser Jaime’s pool of knowledge, and then intercept the queen with as little mess as possible. 

 

“I want her alive,” She says to the room, “Hold her in the Keep until I arrive, but if she proves troublesome, she is better dead than escaped.”

 

Jaime looks like he wants to argue, and Arya Stark’s face gets, if possible, even sterner, but Ser Jorah casts a glance across the table and says “Aye, your grace” with a finality that is impossible to argue with, and Sandor Clegane chimes in with “We’ll drag the bitch to you kicking and screaming, if that’s what you want.”

 

“And we have sent a raven, yes? Offering to meet to make peace?”

 

“We have sent several, your grace, all rejected. She won’t agree to meet us on neutral ground.” Offers Ser Davos.

 

“Smart woman.” Mutters The Hound. “We have dragons. As long as she isn’t hidden behind her own citizens, we could just kill her and have it done with. She won’t leave the safety of the Red Keep, and she was never going to surrender anyway.”

 

Daenerys sighs. “At least we offered. We must show ourselves to be diplomatic, and willing to compromise. Her demise is her own doing now.”

 

“We received word from The Unsullied. They encountered some Lannister men west of the Kingsroad, which we hadn’t anticipated. Luckily they are more disciplined than Westerosi knights, especially those with no love for the queen they fight for. They lost 37 men, but scattered the Lannister forces. It was only a small victory, but a victory nonetheless. The Dothraki and Wildlings seem to be at full ferocity again. They have taken residence in Harrenhal and await instructions.” Ser Davos rattles off the information from the parchment in front of him. 

 

“Very well.” Says Daenerys. “My Unsullied are our greatest advantage in the field, aside from my dragons, but they have suffered enough losses. We must be careful, tactical. I won’t put them on the frontline again if it means extinction.”

 

“Well, with a bit of luck you won’t have to. We intend to take King’s Landing from underneath. If us four succeed, there will be no need for a battle.” Says Ser Jaime. He is staring into his bowl at the dregs of his stew. He has been quiet, and lacking his usual desire to tease and taunt. She need only consider his predicament for a moment before the change is easily explained.

 

She nods, and turns to Davos. “Send orders, if you think it is safe to do so. Inform them that the Unsullied should avoid combat if possible, and station themselves at Stony Sept.”

 

“Is that wise, your grace? Should things not work out as we hope in King’s Landing, we will need their assistance at a moment’s notice.”

 

She wants to protect the army that has never failed her, that was decimated in their selfless bravery in protecting Winterfell, but she knows Ser Davos is right; they are an asset they must use if they have to take the capital by force. She debates internally, then reluctantly raises her head.

 

“Fine. They will pass through Stony Sept and take the Goldroad to Blackwater Rush. They will set up camp there, and hopefully the river will provide cover rather than hem them in should Cersei send an army.”

 

“She can feel us closing in on her. I don’t think she’ll risk losing any defence of King’s Landing when she is adamant that she can wait out the war from within its walls.” Says Jon. 

 

“Get a message to Tyrion. Send a rider if you must. With forces stationed at Harrenhal, he needs to be ready to mobilise as well. Tell him I will need him present when we capture Cersei, so he should assemble a small group of men he trusts to escort him to the capital. Lord Varys should be among them. I don’t want to march our forces to Cersei’s doorstep before we have officially established a siege. The Golden Company will tear through what’s left of the Wildlings and Dothraki and it would be a waste of a quarter of our forces.”

 

Ser Davos nods, scribbling on his parchment in his messy, almost infantile handwriting.

 

“How long until the Northmen arrive with Yara Greyjoy?” 

 

“Several Greyjoy ships have already arrived or will within the next few days. When we landed, some of her forces had been stationed here to hold Dragonstone against Cersei’s half-hearted attempts to take it. She clearly cannot spare the men, and was keeping the Iron Fleet in Blackwater to protect the capital. I suppose she thought Dragonstone dispensable. Either way, we managed to destroy her ships before she caught wind of our plan to land here. If we hadn’t done that, reclaiming your seat may have been a lot harder.” Says Ser Davos. He unrolls a note that had arrived with a raven and re-reads it. “Her remaining ships, carrying the men of the North, will arrive next week, if they are on schedule. It has been a long voyage for them. They will be tired.”

 

A lull follows as Jon and Daenerys mull over the information.

 

“So we must wait?” Asks Jon.

 

“Does Cersei know? That we are here? That we will be joined by the Northmen?” Asks Daenerys.

 

“Yes, I would imagine she does.” Says Ser Davos. “Not that she can do much. She needs all of her forces to protect the city, and with the Iron Fleet gone she can’t possibly hope to reach us here. We took a hit with the army of the dead, but with the Fleet gone, the numbers swing back in our favour. We’re safe, I’ll wager, for the moment at least.”

 

“Then we can wait for reinforcements.” Says Jon.

 

“No. We won’t. She’ll be expecting us to sit and lick our wounds on her doorstep. I don’t think she’ll expect a strike so soon. Tomorrow night you’ll leave for Blackwater.”

 

Six pairs of wide eyes stare back at her from the table.

 

“Tomorrow?!” Says Arya Stark, speaking up after being silent for most of the discussion. 

 

“It makes little sense to wait. She’ll have time to prepare, maybe even time to anticipate our plan. You leave tomorrow, and commence with the plan when you arrive in three days’ time.”

 

“But our reinforcements will be miles away! What if things turn ugly?!” Ser Jaime asks, incredulous.

 

Daenerys swallows. “We never intended to use our armies for this part of the plan. If the plan succeeds, we capture Cersei and take the city from the inside, using the men we have to hand to contain the rioting. If the plan fails, then all four of you die, or are taken prisoner, and we will need to wait to consider our plan of attack anyway. Whichever way the mission goes, we won’t need an army.”

 

“But we  _ will _ need one to establish the peace. A large one at that; King’s Landing is a nest of rats. The common folk will use the chaos and confusion to their own advantage. There will be unrest and uprisings.” says Ser Jaime.

 

“Those who serve the Lannisters within the city will follow me, once we execute Cersei. Those who don’t will face the dragons. We will have turncloaks as City Watchmen. We will be able to maintain some sort of order until our forces arrive, or at least, we’ll be able to keep them out of the Red Keep.” Jon chimes in. A fact Daenerys is grateful for is how he now takes little time to fall in step with her way of thinking, tactically at least.

 

More silence. The Hound swallows a mouthful of his drink noisily. Arya Stark return to the battle with her food, appearing to lose herself in thought. Ser Davos looks to Jon, then sighs.

 

“Tomorrow it is then.”

 

“That is, this plan is only possible if you are all feeling at your strongest.” Daenerys says. In her statement there is a question.

 

A murmur of assent passes round the table. Jaime looks apprehensive, Jorah looks resolute, Arya looks eager, and Clegane looks like he wants to get it over with.

 

“Tomorrow.” She raises her cup. Six cups echo the gesture, and although nerves brew and the discussion lulls with a new tension, she feels certain that she is making the right decision.

 

\- - -

 

She is lost in an endless crowd. People push and jostle her from every side, crushing her between their writhing bodies, shouting without speaking words, the din a dull thud against her tired eardrums. Their faces are unfamiliar, and no one sees her, everyone wriggling past each other, not caring if they knock into someone, and yet with no apparent destination in mind. Chaos for the sake of chaos. 

 

The only thing that stands out in the landscape is an outcrop above the level of the crowd a few yards away. With no other options, Daenerys struggles froward, protecting her face against an onslaught of elbows and headbuts, the noise growing louder, and still none of it makes sense, as if they are crying out in a language she doesn’t understand, but she cannot distinguish any words. It is almost unbearable as she reaches the outcrop. It is a plinth, she realises when she gets close enough, with ancient runes carved into its base and a manmade flat top. The people surge and spill over it, scrambling desperately to climb it and then immediately slipping back down into the mass once they succeed, a never ending torrent of limbs and noise.

 

It’s only when she manages to hoist herself up onto the platform, clinging to the stone as she works her way up, that she sees a red figure emerge, standing untouched on the plinth, observing her climb. 

 

Daenerys doesn’t even bother to dust off her knees. Melisandre steps back to allow her room. Suddenly the people’s noise dims, and they avoid touching the two women. 

 

Looking a little more human this time, Melisandre smiles neutrally at Daenerys, blinking entirely black eyes at her almost vacantly. Daenerys sighs.

 

“Have you come to offer me more riddles, Red Woman?”

 

“If that is what you require of me, Stormborn. It is you who facilitates our meetings.”

 

“As if I have a choice.”

 

Her strange laugh, tinkling and cold like a knife falling down a stone staircase, silences everyone around them for a fraction of a second. She feels infinite eyes on her, and then the scrambling rush starts up again.

 

“I will give you riddles, then. Reading the fire is never easy; flames can take many shapes in a single glance.”

 

Daenerys waits. She finds she is not as apprehensive as she was the first time she dreamt of the Red Priestess. 

 

“The time is almost upon you, Dragon Queen. I hope you are prepared.”

 

Suddenly a lot more engaged, Daenerys starts forward. “Will I succeed? Will the plan work?”

 

Another smirk, and Daenerys would strike her if she wasn’t sure it would do nothing.

 

“It will work as it must. The future is set. However, I have a role to play too, even now. The next few years will define dynasties and centuries to come. It is vital you pay attention. You will lose much, sacrifice more, and gain what you never thought to desire.”

 

“Is it Ser Jorah? Is this his role?”

 

The Red Woman doesn’t answer immediately, scrutinising her. Daenerys notices the people getting closer and louder once more. Several knock her legs as they scramble over the plinth.

 

“A century in a second, Daenerys.” Her voice is chilling, echoing, infinite. Daenerys can feel the scale of it, oppressing her, crushing her into the mass of bodies. She takes a step back, and treads on someone’s limb. Melisandre takes a step forwards, backing her up to the edge of the plinth.

 

“A choice must be made. You will know when it comes.” 

 

Now she is afraid once more. She cannot fathom this being. It is a god she doesn’t understand, is barely acquainted with, and yet owes so much to. She feels herself teetering on the ledge, the mass of bodies beneath her calling and threatening all at once.

 

“In the end, it is not what you will give, but what you will take, that will define you.”

 

Just as Daenerys begins to lose her balance, Melisandre reaches out and grabs her forearm, pulling her further onto the plinth, sending her falling onto the bodies pressed close to the stone surface. The Red Woman swaps their positions, and without stopping, slides easily off the plinth and into the crowd below. They suddenly turn, their shouting turning to hisses, and swarm upon her, dragging her passive body below the surface of the mob. She sees hands grabbing and tugging, and of Melisandre can only see red.

 

A final echo of her haunting voice reaches her ears as she jolts awake in her bed in Dragonstone.

 

_ “It is not what you will give, but what you will take.” _

 

\- - -

 

Having led an attack from the back of a dragon, and negotiated with her council, gambling with the lives of hundreds, if not thousands, from her elevated position of queen, she wants very little more than to retreat into the ever-shrinking corner of her head reserved for Daenerys the woman, not Daenerys the Unburnt. She longs for Jon’s embrace, for his thick hair and soft Northern tones, to fill her emotionally and physically, and yet she feels the ice now as she never has before, stretching out between them, and the giddy happiness of their victory has long since faded. He will not accept her, and she honestly isn’t sure she won’t be grateful of that in the morning.

 

So instead she meanders sleeplessly through the cold halls her family once called home. She cannot claim that word for herself just yet, but there is comfort in the black rock and looming presence of Dragonstone becoming more familiar to her. Winter creeps in through every crevice and lingers in every corner. She draws her furs closer to herself and emerges onto the staircase, leading down to the council rooms, the throne room, the dining hall, and eventually, buried within the rock, the servants’ quarters. She pauses on the landing, and thinks better of the descent, instead continuing along a smaller hallway, nodding at the two guards that stand either side of Jaime Lannister’s door, and slips without much thought into Ser Jorah’s room.

 

Now she considers it, she isn’t sure why she knows where it is. She cannot remember being told, and the last time they were here together, he visited her, not the other way around. Sleep still clings to her, perhaps, and a dream of such disconcerting clarity, even in its bizarreness, does not leave one’s mind at ease. She would blame these factors later for her blatant disregard for propriety and politeness.

 

He is sleeping when she enters, she thinks, but as soon as she closes the door behind her, although she does so softly, he stirs. He sits up and blinks at her in the low light of the dying fire, and once he is sure he isn’t dreaming, he looks a little alarmed.

 

“ _ Khaleesi _ , what are you - are you alright?”

 

“Yes, ser.” She says on a sigh. She knots her hands together in front of her, feeling suddenly very awkward. 

 

He goes to get out of bed, and then appears to remember he is only in sleep attire, and pauses for a moment to debate whether it is more impolite to stay where he is, or to address her in a state of undress. He is flustered, and this amuses her.

 

“I am sorry, I didn’t know - I hadn’t expected...if you allow me to...” He climbs out of bed and reaches for his doublet, but seeing him like this, for the first time she can remember, somehow makes her feel safer than if he was in full plate.

 

“Relax, please, this is your room I have come barging into in the middle of the night. You will be forgiven for not expecting visitors.”

 

He sits down on his bed at the nod of her head, slowly, and still tense with confusion and embarrassment. He’s generally so composed and assured, steadfast and serious, that seeing him in this unexpectedly intimate setting causes a bubble of laughter to warm her chest as it seeks a way out of her. 

 

“Besides, we’ve both seen each other in far worse states.” She says. It is true; as the Red Waste’s heat leeched their energy, they shed their clothing piece by piece, until they were in as light a covering as could keep the sun off their more sensitive Westerosi skin. As a  _ khaleesi _ , she was granted more modest clothing than many Dothraki women, but both her and the knight bathed in streams, sat in the heat as their clothes dried, rid themselves of shirts and tunics for the rituals the horse lords performed for good luck. They, of all the high borns in Westeros, had little reason to be embarrassed in the presence of one another’s undress.

 

“What is the matter, my queen? How can I be of service?” He isn’t looking at her.  _ Why isn’t he looking at her? _

 

_ The fool averts his eyes as if I were the one in my nightclothes _ , she thinks fondly, smirking.

 

_ Wait, why am I here again? And why couldn’t this wait until morning? _

 

The dream comes back to her, like thick, dark water tugging at her ankles.

 

“I...find myself troubled, plagued with confusing and disturbing dreams, and I...I don’t know what to do. It makes it impossible to sleep, and I thought talking to someone might help…”

 

They’ve been in meetings all day. They are both exhausted, and for all his new vitality and stamina, Ser Jorah is not as young as her. She would wake him in his precious hours of much-needed rest, the night before he embarks on the most important and dangerous mission of his life, for no other reason than to whine about her nightmares?

 

_ Why would I do this? _

 

She knows why; because he would receive her at this hour. He would receive her gladly, warmly, innocently, and with concern and a waiting ear.

 

He gives her a soft look. He hasn’t put on his emotional armour yet either. She moves with a confidence she doesn’t quite feel to sit beside him.

 

“I’m at your service.” He says. His voice is deeper than usual, underused, and she is struck by how inappropriate the situation is. She could have gone to Missandei. She  _ should _ have gone to Missandei.

 

Missandei isn’t here. Missandei is in Harrenhal with Grey Worm. Daenerys is surrounded by men, and Arya Stark, who would have been her last choice to seek comfort from. Since Jon won’t have her, Ser Jorah is the only person here that she trusts with her vulnerabilities.

 

“Do you see things in your dreams, now?”

 

“How do you mean?”

 

“Things that aren’t normal, that are brighter and clearer, that stay with you in full for longer?”

 

The way he stares at her, his brow set in a grim line, chewing on his lower lip, gives her the answer she was looking for.

 

“I think it is the Red Woman’s magic. It links us to her, and to her god, and maybe to each other. There is meaning in the visions, I believe.”

 

“Dreams are dreams, surely? They cannot harm nor help us in the waking world?” It’s as if he is seeking reassurance from her now. She was only the catalyst, it was him who actually took the power of the ruby and regained life. She imagines his dreams are far more frequent and far worse, and yet he’s shown no indication of being haunted.

 

“They are more than dreams. They are... _messages_ , perhaps. The first time I dreamt of her, she showed me how to wake you up. That’s how I knew to prise out the jewel from your chest. I understood her message, cryptic and frightening as it was.”

 

“...And what did you dream of tonight?”

 

Her eyes lose focus as she looks into the glowing embers in the fireplace. “People as far as I could see, animalistic and unfamiliar, scrambling over on another, and the Red Woman on a plinth, delivering me more riddles.”

 

She feels him watching her, then he looks down at his hand, thinking as he twists the ring he wears round and round his smallest finger. She’d given him that, she thinks, after he’d had his signet ring taken by the slavers during his banishment. She’d seen fit to replace it when he’d re-entered her service. 

 

_ That was here _ , she thinks,  _ in these walls, what feels like centuries ago. _

 

“What of the words she speaks?”

 

Daenerys sighs. “Of blood and steel, fire and ice, giving and taking, queens and common folk. None of it made much sense, and all of it was vague. It’s as if her price for bringing you back is to irritate me in my sleep, and steal my rest.”

 

The touch of humour makes the corner of his mouth turn up in what would be a smile on most people. “There is usually a price for everything, especially magic like this…” She assumes his mind goes to Rhaego, as hers does, since he moves to lighten the tone once more. “Let us hope it is nothing worse than having to listen to her talk when you have no choice.”

 

“What do you dream of, Ser Jorah?”

 

His sigh carries tales of unfathomable length and scale, the twisting and changing of the things she herself sees when she closes her eyes, a sigh familiar to her in its exhausted resignation.

 

“Nothing that makes sense. I see places I’ve never been, and people I’ve never met. My mind conjures the most obscure things, and yet I have never been a man of imagination. I see trees heavy with fruit, on fire, within a sepulchral dome. I see my whole family looking at me from atop a pile of corpses, with the blue eyes of wights. Several times I have been swallowed whole by one of the dragons. Most recently, a woman I do not know took hold of my arm and tore it from my body, and as I watched, it grew into another person. I am not naive enough to think these dreams are the work of my own mind, they were put there, likely as I was given life again.”

 

“And I echo them. Not exactly, not the same visions, but similar. I have always dreamt somewhat prophetically, of my ancestors or the throne or of fire and winter and dragons and horses, but never like this; never so vivid and real.”

 

“How are we to take them as warnings if they make so little sense? How are we to use them at all if we cannot even untangle their meaning?” His frustration is unusual; he must feel as helpless and confused as she does.

 

“Perhaps we are not. Perhaps this... _ fire god  _ is simply toying with us, showing the future in warped fragments so we can feel foolish when they finally make sense.”

 

“It sounds as if your dream tonight was a warning. I pray that, when the situation arises, we understand its meaning in time.” 

 

_ We _ . It is always ‘we’, never ‘you’. When she shares her problems, he takes them as his own. She cannot decide if this is a good thing.

 

His new vitality makes him look alert and strong most of the time, but she sees the hollow surface of his eyes; a film barring their usual glitter from consoling her.

 

“Are you tired, Ser Jorah?”

 

“A little, _ khaleesi _ , but I rarely sleep the night before a battle anyway. Even a man who has beaten death feels nerves.”

 

“There is no shame in fear; is it not the conquering of it that allows you room to be brave?”

 

“Indeed it is,  _ khaleesi _ .” He says with a soft smile. He has never shown fear, not _true_ fear, not like she knows he must have felt at some point. Perhaps he doesn’t cling to his own life with the stubborn strength of most people. Perhaps he really doesn’t fear death if it is in service of his queen.

 

Then she will have to fear it for him.

 

“I admire your honesty, ser, but I didn’t mean it in that way.”

 

“No?”

 

“No. I mean, are you weary? Do you pray for peace? Do you want away from all of this violence and hardship? All this death and danger?”

 

His smile is a little patronising then, as if it were childish of her to ask. He doesn’t underestimate her anymore, but he still talks to her in this manner sometimes, out of a very old habit. She suspects it has something to do with their difference in age. 

 

“It is necessary to suffer through to put you on your throne. There is nowhere else for me to be than fighting for you, on the front line.”

 

“Your belief carries you through this.”

 

“As on a breeze, my queen.”

 

“I am tired.” She admits. She has not addressed the fact herself but now, confronted with the question she raised, she must concede a minor defeat. “I am exhausted. I feel as if I have lived a thousand years. I feel sometimes as if the desire for the throne is just as much a desire for peace; a desire for this strife and sacrifice to be over.”

 

The embers warm her face, and the affection in his eyes warms her heart, as he thinks on what to say next.

 

“It will be worth it,  _ khaleesi _ . You are still so young, and have a long and glorious life ahead of you. Once you rule, there will be peace, and there will be people surrounding you to ease your burden so you are not overwhelmed or alone, as you have been.”

 

“Do you mean to say, I will know rest, I will know peace, when I am queen?” Her tone is dry. She has already come to terms with what lies ahead.

 

He concedes. “...No,  _ khaleesi _ , you will not. It is the most difficult life in the world, and the most rewarding. I could tell you that your life will be full of worrying, compromising and warring, and it would be the truth, but it would not deter you from your campaign, because you and I both know you have come too far, and care too much, to give up now. This is more than just a desire to immortalise yourself in the history books; you care for the people you seek to liberate, just as you did in Astapor, and Yunkai, and Meereen. You know your future is on the throne, a future Westeros should pray for, if they know what’s good for them, and I  _ promise _ , I will stand by your side and take as much of the load from you as I am able. No one should have to do something so monumental alone, especially not someone as young as you, who has faced as many trials and hardships as you have.”

 

When she reaches for his hand, he takes it. She stares ahead, not looking at anything, just absorbing every word.  There is silence for a long moment. When he speaks again, his voice is a gentle whisper.

 

“Just a little further,  _ khaleesi _ , and you will mount the world, as you were always meant to.” 

 

She stands, moving to the small window and peering out into the uneasy night. The wind is up; she can hear it screeching through the crags and caves of the shoreline. It is never good weather on Dragonstone, never quiet or mild, always raging or frigid, always cold enough to freeze you or wet enough to drown you. She was born here, she remembers, in the middle of the worst storm in memory. 

 

“I understand why Cersei has not accepted our calls for peace; why she refuses to meet us to discuss terms, or to even consider surrender, even with the odds stacked against her.”

 

The pause is drawn out long enough that she realises he wasn’t aware he was supposed to say anything. He clears his throat and offers a suggestion.

 

“You have no reason to keep each other alive. Meeting face to face would be a death sentence.”

 

She nods, but her violet eyes are distant and glassy as the windowpane she stares out of. 

 

“It is much easier to do nothing. It is easier, and it means you have less to lose, if you do nothing and let the world move you. It takes effort and risk, drive and desire, to be active, to seek change rather than to simply allow it. Maybe Cersei does think she has a chance, or maybe she is just tired, as I am, and has no reason to fight anymore.”

 

“But you do have a reason.”

 

He has misunderstood. She turns from the window to smile at him; a small and gentle pull of her lips, as he sits in his night clothes and talks with her as if they were in a council meeting. His combination of blind hope and practical experience lulls her into a false sense of security, but is it false if it has yet to fail her?

 

“Aye, I have a reason. I am far from spent. This is why she will lose.”

 

She moves to stand before him. He goes to rise, but she keeps him sitting where he is with a hand on his shoulder. 

 

“You mustn’t die on this mission, Ser Jorah.”

 

“I will endeavour not to, your grace.”

 

“I mean it, as I meant it on the hills overlooking Vaes Dothrak. I need you by my side. I have a great many who will help and advise me, this is true, but I trust you more than any of them. I don’t know what I would do, if you fall in the corridors of the Red Keep, with no priestess to bring you back to me.”

 

He is silent as he looks at her. She watches his eyes sweep over her face, as he occasionally allows himself to do, taking in every trait and feature, and she knows that he will gladly face insurmountable odds to not only bring her the crown, but also to return to her himself. Their relationship has surpassed that of a queen and her warrior; they are interdependent to a certain extent, and that only makes him braver.

 

“I will do this for you,  _ khaleesi _ . I will do everything in my power to help you get the throne. I promise you, I will not fail.”

 

_ What’s winning if I have to see him die again? _

 

A treacherous thought. Sacrifices must be made, she reminds herself, even those that leave a chasm in her chest. If he dies, she will know he died fighting, without a bitter thought in his heart. Although she cannot say that she, left behind, will be so easily placated. 

 

When she offers him her hand again, he kisses it with a sense of finality. There will be a formal send-off later, but for now she is content to be alone with him, confronting the very real possibility that it will be the last time. She considers how little she has to say to him, should he die the following day. She truly believes that whatever remains unsaid between them is distant and unimportant at this point. She briefly considers leaning down to kiss him, the thought dusting along the back of her head like a caress, a sudden and inexplicable inclination that sends a pleasant thrill through her. He had died in her arms on the battlefield of Winterfell, never knowing how important he is to her, and she has tried since then to rectify that, but to give him a glimpse of what he wants, what he won’t even fully admit to himself he wants, would be crueller than it would be kind, she thinks.

 

And they both need sleep.

 

“You have offered me great comfort, my bear.” She murmurs, warm and drowsy, the companionship  _ almost  _ chasing away the thought of danger and bloodshed that approaches.

 

“It was my pleasure,  _ khaleesi _ , if an unexpected one.”

 

She shares his smile, and opts to press a kiss to his forehead instead of his lips, a gesture that straddles affection and propriety, and she still gets to see his bemused expression when she moves away from him.

 

“Rest now, my knight, for as long as you need. Tomorrow shall be a long day.”

 

On returning to her own bed, she feels sleep beckoning. She dreams only of peace; of streams in the Red Waste, of winter ending, of her armies below and her dragons in the blue above.

  
  



	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eek, I'm a day late! Sorry everyone, it's been hell here. This one's for those who wanted some Jorah perspective. I found he was super interesting to write, since I didn't write as him in my other Jorah/Dany fic and I've never had to think about things from inside his head before. 
> 
> Some of you have been keen to see the Assassin Squad interact, so here you go! I hope I did all the intricate and unexplored dynamics justice!
> 
> Next chapter's the big one! xx

The amount of hidden weapons carried by such a small girl is staggering. Somehow, Arya Stark finds room to slip another dagger into the lining of her tunic. Daenerys had offered her a bigger sword, a more practical weapon that would allow her to keep her foes at a safer distance, but the girl refused, and instead slips her thin little blade smoothly into its sheath. 

 

The girl is an enigma. Out of those assembled at Dragonstone, she has shown the least trepidation, anticipation, fear, uncertainty and generally the least emotion regarding what’s to come. Daenerys knows little of the Stark girl, not helped by the fact that she has spent the last day and a half training in her chambers or being silent during meals. She is more than competent, her record apparently consisting of several knights of the realm, the lord of an ancient and sprawling house, and the Night King himself, and Daenerys is both confident in her abilities and a little unnerved by them. She betrays nothing, appears to have no particular driving motivation, or at least one so deeply hidden Daenerys cannot catch a glimpse of it, and the only thing that allows a glimmer of feeling into her eyes are her family, and the prospect of killing. Arya cares not for Daenerys’ claim, her vision for Westeros, or the justice she seeks to enact. She sees only blood; that on her hands or that in her veins, and in many ways Daenerys wants to know what has shaped this girl, a lord’s daughter, a  _ lady _ by name, into a killer of such subtle ferocity, terrifying efficiency and dexterous elegance. What molded her face into the indifferent and impenetrable mask it is today, when she knows she must still be human, must still feel  _ something? _

 

She prays she gets the opportunity to find out. It wouldn’t do to lose her. 

 

“Good luck, Arya Stark. I am grateful for you service, and I have faith in your abilities.”

 

She gets a smirk in response to her courtesy. “I would have done it whether or not you asked me to.” Jon, standing beside Daenerys, clears his throat and fixes his not-quite-half-sister with a firm stare. Arya rolls her eyes.

 

“Thank you,  _ your grace _ . I’ll get her for you.”

 

The pleasantry rings insincere, but her tone is amicable. Regardless of the conflict of interests between their houses, and the inevitable bad blood between Daenerys and Sansa, Arya seems to have a genuine, begrudging respect for the woman who raised herself from the dust and sand and rode a dragon into Winterfell. The respect is mutual. If she manages to get the Lion Queen, Daenerys will let her call herself whatever she wants, and go wherever she wants. She won’t need her to be  _ polite _ then.

 

Jaime Lannister bows, and thanks her for her well wishes, but, as has been the case since he first volunteered for the mission, his mind is elsewhere. There are dark shadows round his eyes, a grim tilt to his mouth, a defeat in his posture. His appearance is unkempt, his expression distracted, like he is waiting, with a sort of sick anticipation, for the final blow of the executioner’s axe. She’s heard talk that he was the greatest swordsman in the Seven Kingdoms once; Commander of the Kingsguard, heir to the richest family in Westeros, and eldest son of its most powerful man. Slayer of the Mad King, of her  _ father.  _ A  knight of such high valour, skill and charm that he was admired or resented throughout the realm, depending on which side of his shield you stood. And here he stands now, broken and one-handed, waiting for an end he knows will be painful however the next few days play out. She could almost pity him.

 

She doesn’t trust him. Mad as her father was, he was still her father, and the Lannister put a sword through his back. Ser Jaime knows she hasn’t forgotten that fact; he averts his eyes, unwilling to look into familiar Targaryen violet and be reminded. Still, she believes he did what he did for the good of the innocents her father wanted to burn, not out of hatred, pride or desire of conquest. She will not forgive him, but she understands that they need his name, his history and his expertise to pull this off. He is invaluable as an ally at this moment, and then, once the throne is won, to have the two Lannister brothers on her side may further persuade the people to unite behind her, as they did.

 

She knows Sandor Clegane even less than Arya and Jaime, but she offers him her respect and thanks all the same. He grunts at her, his heavily-scarred face difficult to read, running his tongue over his broken teeth and staring out across the blackening water. He has unfinished business, and is eager to begin. He is truly huge, and if anyone has a chance at taking down The Mountain, it is him, who might not only be strong enough, but would actually dare to face him in the first place.

 

Ser Jorah waits with his head bowed, and when she offers him the same gratitude and well wishes as the other three, he raises his gaze and smiles at her. It is a soft and respectful sight, laced with playfulness, like her private farewell to him last night is a shared secret to be kept between the two of them.

 

“You seem determined to die in my service, ser.”

 

“I can see why you may think so,  _ khaleesi _ .” 

 

If he dies, she will never again feel a comfort so simple and so certain as hearing his voice form the word ‘ _ khaleesi' _ .

 

“I expect many more attempts in the future.”

 

He nods. She spends a brief moment, no longer than would be considered appropriate, tracing the familiar lines of his face. She won’t forget, she thinks, she  _ mustn’t _ forget, should he die. 

 

Any further contact would be unsuitable. She was tender last night, and now she must be strong. The other brave warriors who may die in her service should not be insulted by clear favouritism. 

 

She stands to one side as Jon nods respectfully to the three men and then sweeps Arya into a hug. The display tugs at something below her lungs, something long dormant and much neglected. She swallows hard and averts her eyes from its light.

 

And so she is to be left to fret and worry like a fisherman’s wife, trapped in her cold castle on her windswept island, unable to fly, unable to ride, with a host of ironborn guards, and her now-distant nephew as company. She watches the men push the small dinghy out into the waves, and one by one they leap aboard. The evening will turn quickly to night, and they will be aboard for around three days before they reach King’s Landing, and she has given them strict instructions to rest as much as they can in that time. The wind is with them, and the ship is unassuming. The journey shouldn’t be the problem; it is what awaits them on the shore.

 

She will fly to them soon. She will wait four days, and then follow. She will save them, once they have Cersei, and make all of the city stare in wonder at the girl who raised dragons from the dead. She just...has to get the timing right.

 

Once the boat is out of her line of sight, swallowed by the vast expanse of water, she allows herself a heavy sigh, her shoulders dropping as her composure slips. Jon hesitates for a moment, but then, clearly feeling something similar, he wraps an arm around her shoulder and pulls her closer. They walk back up to the castle side by side. 

 

\- - -

 

Sailing has never bothered him. Northerners, especially islanders, take to sea early, and his body bends easily to the rocking of a ship. Nevertheless, it is a very small ship, and small ships make the waves seem that much higher. He rests as much as he can, but the rocking of the boat has upset the stomachs of several of the men manning it, and it becomes difficult to relax with nowhere to go to escape the sound of vomiting. They are all suffering somewhat after almost three days at sea; Jaime Lannister looks deep enough in his own head one could be forgiven for thinking he may never re-emerge, Arya Stark has stopped sharpening her blades, and even The Hound looks a little green. Mormonts don’t get seasick, just as Mormonts don’t tremble in the face of certain death. 

 

Over and over again;  _ Here I Stand _ . Alone now, he supposes; the only bear left standing.

 

His father would turn in his grave. The only hope for their house, after everything they have endured, is his disgraced son. A cruel joke from the gods, perhaps.

 

He is pulled from his dark musings by the knowledge that one of the ironborn sailors is staring at him. He’s had to acclimatised to being looked at after the Battle of Winterfell; men believe in magic easier now the Long Night proved itself real, and talk of a knight resurrected garnered a certain level of interest. This, however, is different. This man knows him.

 

He sees now that he is not so much a sailor as a soldier too; ironborn mostly double as such. He is perhaps a little younger than Jorah, but it’s difficult to tell. He is also more wiry and bedraggled, a trait of the harsh rock that bore him. He looks at him through one blue eye and one brown eye, hidden beneath an unkempt fringe of mousy brown hair, curling in front of his brow. He wears no armour, but then again neither does Jorah at this moment, so he cannot pass judgement there. Jorah vaguely recognises the sigil embroidered onto the breast of his tunic, but it is worn and faded, and it is the only one he wears. He can make out a scythe, and struggles for the name.

 

Seeing his stare is being returned, the man pushes himself from where he is sitting at the stern and slinks over to Ser Jorah. 

 

“The bear that came back.” Jorah supposes it is meant as a greeting. It seems word travels fast. He wonders how many other people see him as a freak of nature. He wonders if he could use that to his advantage.

 

“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.” He says, but his tone is dry; let the stranger decide whether the clearly inevitable conversation will be friendly or hostile.

 

“Believe it or not, Mormont, I knew who you were  _ before _ you started following the Dragon Queen around with your tongue out.” 

 

Already irked and seeing his unpleasant journey is about to get even less pleasant, he resigns himself to silence in the hope that his companion will lose interest.

 

“Ser Jorah Mormont of Bear Island. Lord now, I believe. I was there at Pyke, the day the rebellion broke. I was a scrap back then, barely able to hold a sword upright let alone wield it, but ironborn are blooded early and I wanted a taste of glory. Of course, I barely got any. Some cunt knocked me out cold ten minutes in, took half my eyesight for the trouble.”

 

He waves a hand before his face. His brown eye is not just brown, Jorah sees up close. A dark discolouration has flooded the whites: it is an injury.

 

Jorah remembers Pyke well. The ground had turned to liquid beneath his horse’s hooves on the approach; mud becoming marsh with two weeks of rain clogging the land, bringing the sea to the seat of the Greyjoys as a final line of defence. Balon’s men had long since run out of oil to shower down, and eventually the great gate groaned and fell. Jorah remembers the rush of his first true victory, his eyesight blurring with wind and rain, blindly following the burning beacon of Thoros of Myr’s flaming sword. He was lucky he hadn’t cut down his own men in the chaos, and so of course wouldn’t remember a boy with a scythe on his breast.

 

“We were always taught that ironborn fight with the strength of ten mainlanders, but fuck me were you strong. I remember you, with your father’s Valyrian steel, cleaning the blood of one man from it with the innards of another. Balon's men tried to get you off your horse, five of them or so, all at once, all around you, and I don’t know how you did it, but you held them all off.”

 

The words, though full of praise, are still spoken in the man’s native bitter tones. 

 

“They say that of Bear Islanders too.”

 

“What?”

 

“That we fight with the strength of ten mainlanders. Perhaps it’s true for everyone who grows up away from the continent. Perhaps we just fear being out of touch with the competition.”

 

The man’s laughter is brittle and coarse. 

 

“You, and that madman with the fire blade, and Ned Stark, and that one over there.” He indicates with his head to Ser Jaime. He hasn’t moved in the last few hours, stationed at the bow, staring out into the waves. He is exposed to the wind up at the front, his Lannister-gold hair whipping into his Lannister-green eyes, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

 

“We never stood a chance. Pyke’s almost impenetrable in a siege... _ almost _ . They could hold it against you for months, but couldn’t defend it against you for more than a few hours.”

 

“It was a bloody day.” Is all Jorah says, all he can bring himself to say.

 

“Aye, you made quite a mess. My family were sworn to the Greyjoys, but you made them look like a flock of frightened women.”

 

“Your family?”

 

“House Harlaw. I’m Grasson Harlaw”

 

_ Ah. _ No wonder he recognises the sigil; they’re a lesser, but large and sprawling house of the Iron Islands. He doesn’t think he’s ever properly met one before.

 

“I do hope you bear me no ill will, Grasson Harlaw.” He says. The sea is unrelenting, and he needs to rest for the assault on the Red Keep; he’d like to avoid fighting before they even get there, if possible.

 

The man snorts incredulously. He has tilted his body to face Jorah, who stares resolutely ahead. He is no Loras Tyrell himself, he knows, but the man’s ugliness is made considerably worse by the moonlight.

 

“Ill will? For killing men who thought they were strong enough to be your king? You forget, ser, I am ironborn. We believe in the right to take what you want, when you want, with blood and steel;  _ the iron price _ . Balon wanted the throne, he tried to take it, and he failed to pay. Only fools hold grudges for the sake of other fools’ honour. You beat the Greyjoys, and took back their titles with the iron price. I can only respect that.”

 

“Oh.” He had expected a verbal confrontation at best, a physical one at worst, not an  _ appraisal _ . “So you came to speak to me because…?”

 

He shrugs. “Reckon I might not get another chance, where you lot are headed. And I remember you from that battle; a true warrior. I heard you were exiled, over here people thought they’d seen the back of you, and then you come back with a pretty little Targaryen in tow.”

 

“And her pretty little dragons.” Jorah growls under his breath; a warning. 

 

“I mean no offence! Always spoken my mind, my lord. I’m following a woman too; a great deal less pretty, but just as fierce, I reckon. The world’s run by women now. I hope yours will be queen; never trusted that Lannister bitch. Mine will hopefully keep the peace. I’m sick of my relatives dying for the sake of Greyjoy men’s pride.”

 

“She will be queen. If the ironborn stay faithful, they’ll have all the peace they want. More power and influence too, I imagine. I didn’t know your house before, but I do now, since we’re allies. I hope I never have a reason to be fighting on the other side to you again.” Words, potentially soft in meaning, are laced with subtle threat as he speaks them firmly. Grasson smiles, revealing what few teeth he still has, and Jorah tilts his head down in acknowledgement of his new acquaintance. He has never been particularly social, but for the sake of his queen, it is important that he forms ties with houses that have the potential to demand independence in the future. The Iron Islands have always been fickle, volatile scraps of land.

 

He bids him farewell as he sees Arya and The Hound gathering with Ser Jaime at the bow, and decides to join them. It is only after he has left Grasson that he realises he addressed him as “my lord”.

 

He slips into the group. Ahead, faint lights glitter on what he assumes is the horizon.

 

“We’re getting close.”

 

It’s Arya Stark who speaks, worrying her lips with sharp little teeth. The Hound sighs, and sits heavily on the deck, pulling a flask from his hip, tearing the cork out with his teeth and taking a long swig. Jaime Lannister swallows and glances at Ser Jorah, who tires to keep his equal apprehension off his face.

 

“What are you thinking of, Mormont?” He says after a few minutes. His manner of addressing people is irritatingly similar to his brother’s. “Your queen, perhaps?”

 

“As you are thinking of yours?”

 

“I have no queen now. Just a sister and a commander.”

 

“Then you do have a queen. If you are allied to us, Daenerys is your queen.”

 

“Yes, alright,  _ technically _ . Gods, Tyrion warned me you were miserable.” 

 

It seems verbal sparring allows Jaime to escape whatever thoughts have been dampening his spirit for the last few weeks. At least he has wit, and courage, and ability. Certain levels of respect can never fully disappear for Jorah, not matter how hard Ser Jaime has tried with his past deeds.

 

“I won’t argue with you, Kingslayer. We’re comrades now.”

 

“Of course, of course. Honour above all. You’re a very respectable man, Ser Jorah, considering you’re an outcast. What was it? A slaver? How  _ very _ strange, considering what your lovely queen has been doing in Essos. Appropriate, almost. I wonder how you possibly got her to overlook such a huge character flaw…”

 

He has honestly no idea what the other man is insinuating, and he doesn’t want to give it too much thought. Men like Ser Jaime feed off others’ discomfort, not just attempting to swing the conversation in their favour, but refusing to allow the other to retreat until he has thoroughly undressed them.  _ Just like his brother _ , thinks Ser Jorah. But he’s spent enough time with Tyrion to be almost used to it.

 

“Perhaps you’re just bitter. I don’t suppose many men have beaten you in a tourney, especially not one on your own land.”

 

Jaime hisses through his teeth, but he looks amused. “Damn. I was hoping you’d forget that.”

 

“That I beat Jaime Lannister in a joust? How could I? It earnt me respect, for a while, and a wife...for a while…”

 

The vulnerable spot in his heart is unexpectedly probed. He doesn’t like to speak of his past, especially not to people he barely knows, even if their lives have been inextricably intertwined over the years. Jaime, however, laughs in good humour.

 

“Perhaps it is bad luck to defeat me in single combat. I believe you’re the only one alive who can claim to have had the pleasure.”

 

Arya scoffs. “And Ser Brienne. She said she knocked you into the dust like you were a streetcat rather than a lion.”

 

“Did she use those words exactly?” 

 

“...No...but I got the gist.”

 

“Wouldn’t surprise me none.” The Hound chimes in. “She beat me. Bit my ear off and everything.”

 

“Well, then it seems clear she should try her hand with Lord Mormont.”

 

Ser Jorah shakes his head. “I don’t fancy my chances.”

 

“They say you beat Death, surely Brienne of Tarth would be no challenge?”

 

“I still wouldn’t risk it.”

 

“I’d take Brienne in a fight over spending a month in a boat alone with my brother any day.”

 

“As would I.” Says The Hound.

 

“He said you contracted greyscale protecting him.” Says Ser Jaime, with his usual confidence, but there’s a faraway contemplation in his gaze.

 

“I contracted greyscale when we were attacked in the ruins of Old Valyria. Whether it was defending him or myself, I have no way of knowing.”

 

“How did you survive greyscale? I thought it was fatal.” Asks Arya.

 

“Samwell Tarly cured me at the Citadel, at great personal and professional risk.”

 

“ _ How _ ?” Jaime looks incredulous, as if he expected Ser Jorah to confirm that he had contracted greyscale but  _ hadn’t  _ been cured of it?

 

“He cut the top layer of the infected skin off and covered it with a salve of some sort.”

 

Jaime sucks a quiet breath in through gritted teeth. Arya raises her eyebrows.

 

The awkward silence is broken by the clang of metal on metal as Ser Jaime hits a cleet with his false hand.

 

“Well I lost a hand. Clegane here lost an ear. What did the little one lose?”

 

Jorah thought she would reel at the jibe, instead Arya just blinks back at him.

 

“My eyesight, for a while.” The cold twist of her lips makes Jorah think she lost something else, something graver, something he cannot see.

 

Three aging warriors with parts of themselves missing, and a little girl with ice behind her eyes. What were their losses for?

 

_ For glory. For honour. For pride. For money. For power. For vengeance. For love. For life.  _

 

They’ve clung to a world that has tried its damndest to shake them off. Maybe they weren’t such a perplexing group of people for this mission after all.

“Now we’ve established a common ground, it should be easier to trust each other. We’ll never make it past the dungeons if we don’t, let alone capture my sister.”

 

“I never got anywhere trusting Lannisters.” Growls The Hound.

 

“We  _ always _ pay our debts; if you save my life, I’ll save yours. That’s how it works.”

 

“The reason I’m here is so you don’t grab your damn sister and run off with her. Does it sound like we believe your stupid family sayings now?”

 

“I’m not going to try and save Cersei. If Daenerys and Jon truly thought I was, they wouldn’t have let me come. We have to watch each others’ backs, not try and put a blade in them.”

 

“You’d know all about that.” Says Ser Jorah. He doesn’t trust Jaime, but he knows he is right; they will have to rely on mutual fear and a shared goal to form something  _ vaguely resembling _ trust, if they are to get anywhere near Cersei. 

 

The lights on the horizon get closer, and shift to take the shape of a city; thousands of candles and lanterns lighting the streets, despite the late hour.

 

They share a collective moment of breathing in the sea air, a collective understanding of what they are about to face together.

 

“What do we say to the god of Death?” Mutters Arya Stark, to herself probably, but a memory of Braavos stirs, of times long ago when his sword decided his next meal, of foreign men and their myths, of the beliefs they clung to in order to keep going. 

 

Ser Jorah knows this god; intimately, as well as by reputation, and so he replies, his voice heavy, his eyes turned upwards towards the star-speckled sky.

 

“Not today.”

  
  



	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wooooo this is -the- action chapter! I had SO much fun writing this. It's super long, but it didn't seem necessary to split it up and kill any tension I've managed to build, and I didn't want to leave you guys on a cliffhanger. This chapter is an amalgamation of thoughts I've had about Season 8's disappointing ending, that have built upon one another since it aired. Some ideas here are probably not exclusively my own, and I'd take it as a compliment that me and other people thought the same thing should happen to be satisfying. 
> 
> If this ain't your thing, maybe just skip to the end? I'll have more romance soon, I promise. 
> 
> ALSO note that this chapter has graphic descriptions of violence in it. If that sort of thing bothers you, be careful. I presume, if you watch Game of Thrones, you don't mind that.
> 
> Hope you like it. Strap in x

Ser Davos has marked on a map, written down on parchment and described verbally in great detail the location of the secret tunnel under the walls of King’s Landing, and now, he points it out in the gloom as they approach the shore.

 

“Follow it until the end. It branches into smaller paths in a couple of places, but stick to the main one until it narrows and you think you can’t go any further. Then, drop to your belly and crawl even deeper in. It’ll be unpleasant, and I’m a little worried about Clegane here, but if you take your armour off and put it on again on the other side it should be fine. It isn’t the most comfortable or dignified passage in, but it’s definitely the most secure.”

 

His voice drops as their boat rounds the headland.

 

“Then you’ll be in the castle dungeons. Do you remember the route to her chambers?”

 

They nod at him. They must have been over it a dozen times. Jaime Lannister looks down at his boots.

 

“With any luck she’ll still be asleep, with it being only a few hours until dawn. The servants’ passages will be the busiest part of the castle, but the least heavily guarded. You’ll have to be careful, and above all,  _ quiet _ . I know subtlety isn’t a strong point, for  _ any _ of you really, but if you manage to get to her chambers without alerting her Queensguard, it should just take Clegane to distract The Mountain and then you can grab her.”

 

Ser Jorah tilts his head up to observe the looming shadow of the Red Keep. It grows larger as they slip closer. Somewhere, buried in its depths, is a small, blonde woman, fortified, fierce, and more valuable than anything. 

 

“Then you just have to hold her there until the Dragon Queen arrives.”

 

Here is the catch. Ser Jorah, in all his world-worn cynicism, is aware that this will likely be an assassination rather than a kidnapping, and they are unlikely to make it out alive. Arya might, he considers; she is small and quick and apparently has a trick up her sleeve to help her go unnoticed. For the three of them remaining; the future is grim and unknown.

 

“We’ll wait here, in the cove hidden from most of the bay. We’re small enough to pass for a fishing boat. If the mission is a failure, and there is an opening to escape, come back here, through the passage or through the front gates for all I care, just come back. We’ll wait until we see a search commencing, or until noon. If we see nothing of you, we’ll head back to Dragonstone.”

 

All four of them nod. They knew the risks when they volunteered. Ending a war with four soldiers sounds like the easiest option, but capturing Cersei Lannister in her own castle under the nose of all of her forces, is an image less easy to conjure. 

 

They make it to the shore, and feeling sand and solid ground under his boots is already lifting Jorah’s mood. The entrance is easy enough to find, just tall enough for a man to slip through, with The Hound having to stoop, barred by a simple iron grate. Ser Davos passes them torches, gives them a salute from the shore, and pushes the dinghy back out into the water. And then they are alone.

 

With no time to lose, they enter the tunnels. It is dingy and damp, grime and moss clinging to the walls, drops of  _ something _ occasionally falling and slipping down into his armour, but this is the easy part, the  _ pleasant _ part, and after a while of moving as swiftly and silently as possible, they reach the apparent end. 

 

Jorah sees what Ser Davos meant. There is a gap in the wall, on the floor, just about big enough to crawl through, and effectively hidden in the gloom, the torchlight not reaching the ground. Arya sighs and drops to her belly first, pushing her torch through the gap and following after it. She slips through with no difficulty, and he hears her get to her feet on the other side.

 

“It isn’t too bad, and it’s all clear through here. Kingslayer, you next.” She calls back to them.

 

Ser Jaime does as he is bid, with a bit more effort and a little less grace, but he makes it through with his armour still in place, so Jorah assumes it is safe for him to do the same. 

 

“Hound, now you. Ser Jorah can help you from that side, and we’ll pull from this side.”

 

The Hound mutters a string of curses under his breath, none of them pretty words, and shrugs out of his breastplate, tasset, rerebraces and gauntlets. He shoves them through the hole ahead of him and hands Jorah his torch unceremoniously. It takes a lot of wriggling and pulling from the other side. Jorah can tell Arya is trying not to laugh. The Hound spits more obscenities in his embarrassment, but eventually they get him through. 

 

Getting through is uncomfortable, and the compressing of Jorah’s chest causes a flutter of panic as he imagines the whole huge bulk of the Red Keep waiting above him, waiting to bury him. He thinks briefly of the way his armour caved in, the sharp metal piercing him all over, as he took blade after blade from the wights. Compressed, trapped and suffocated by his own breastplate, the steel that was supposed to protect him closing in on him until he cannot move, cannot breathe. The feeling meant death before, and Melisandre of Asshai isn’t here to fend it off a second time.

 

He is pulled from his past by The Hound, grabbing his arms and hoisting him suddenly to his feet on the other side of the wall. They take only a moment to pick up their torches, and to help Clegane put his armour back on, before they are off down the tunnel again.

 

The stretch is longer, rougher, with bare rock and an uneven floor showing that this part of the passage gets few travellers. It is oppressively dark, and Jorah wonders just how long it will be, and what they will do if they lose the torchlight.

 

Although the light that appears in front of them eventually is muted and faint, it’s like a brilliant dawn after so long in the uncertain dark. They round a corner, and there is a small grate, leaking candlelight into the passage. It is against the ground of the room beyond, but high up the wall they now face. They are a man’s height below the dungeon floor, the window just above the The Hound’s eye line.

 

With no preamble, The Hound lifts Arya onto his shoulders. She lets out a small squeal of indignation, before she realises what he is doing. Gripping the bars, she peers into the room, then nods an ‘all clear’ to the three men below her.

 

The grate opens with a firm elbow, its hinges rusty, and Arya slides through and rolls onto the dungeon floor. They follow in the same order, boosting one another up and yanking them through on the other side. Jorah dusts himself off and looks around the room they find themselves in.

 

It is an antechamber of some sort, with an arch to their left leading into a huge, vaulting hall. A few torches flicker in the room beyond. It is eerily quiet. More archways around the large room lead to more dark passageways, winding down into darkness like the legs of a spider, presumably to the cells. They douse their torches and move around the storage of shackles and chains that cover most of the antechamber’s floor until Arya can peer around the corner of the archway to better observe the main room.

 

She holds up two fingers; two guards, likely stationed at the exit, Jorah assumes. Arya’s voice is so quiet they have to lean exceptionally close to hear her.

 

“Wait here. I’ll call for help if I need it. Keep an eye out in case there are others we can’t see.”

 

And before it can even be discussed, she has slipped like water around the corner. The three men press as close to the wall as possible and wait. 

 

He hears a wordless exclamation, the clink of metal on metal, two swift slices, and then choking.

 

A few seconds pass, and he doesn’t breathe. The three men look at each other, frozen in uncertainty. He swears his own heartbeat sounds like battle drums.

 

“All clear.” Arya calls. Her steady voice echoes through the large room.

 

The guards lie at her feet, their throats slit neatly. She tucks her blade back into her tunic after wiping it clean on their cloaks.

 

“Come on.” She says, immediately heading up the stairs. Jorah gives the room a last glance, but everything is still.

 

At the door at the top, Arya looks to Ser Jaime. 

 

“Right, you lead the way. If you call for help, I’ll slit your throat like I did those two.”

 

Jaime fixes her with a firm look, his strong brow furrowing. Ser Jorah trusts him, for now. They’ve come this far; he’d be a fool to give them away now. Changing sides at this point would likely only get him killed anyway. He’s abandoned Cersei, and Lannisters always pay their debts.

 

“Stay close to me. Try not to make a sound.”

 

The hallway they enter is lit properly. The men guarding the entrance to a main staircase are stationed facing the other way, conversing sleepily in low murmurs. They cling to the shadows and slink after Ser Jaime, down a smaller corridor and through a wooden door onto a spiral staircase. Jorah winces every time his armour chimes as he moves.

 

They arrive in the servants’ passages; narrow, dusty and winding, the veins of the Red Keep, the supply route. All four of them spill into the hallway, and a high gasp alerts them to a parlor maid carrying bathrobes, frozen where she stands. Before any moral conundrum concerning innocent women can form in Jorah’s mind, The Hound has driven his sword through her.

 

She falls, and Arya darts forward, a small, precise knife at the ready. He watches in repulsed fascination as she quickly and deftly cuts around the woman’s face, and pulls it from her skull. 

 

The Hound tucks her body into a corner and they keep moving.

 

There are seven more servants along the next stretch. They are all unarmed, so killing them is practically easy, if a little difficult on the conscience. One particularly bold squire comes at them with the golden jug he is carrying, and Ser Jaime spills his innards onto the sandy stone below. 

 

“We’re getting closer. There aren’t many important people in the Keep at the moment, and as we draw nearer Cersei, there will be more eyes on us.” He says.

 

They move closer, burying further into the castle, and eventually run out of servant passages to use, and must brave the main corridors. 

 

“The easiest route to her chamber will be through her solar, but it will be very exposed.” Says Ser Jaime. Jorah is certain that, were the situation less dire, someone would have made a joke about how he knows the best way to sneak into his sister’s chambers without being seen.

 

They pause at another door, breathing heavily as their hearts race as one. Arya drops to a knee and starts rummaging around in the small satchel she carries. When she stands again, she is not Arya Stark anymore.

 

Jorah blinks several times in the low light, not quite believing what he sees. There has been talk of the skills Arya has acquired in her stint in Braavos, and how they might come in useful now, but it was one thing to discuss disguise and another to change appearance in a few seconds. Her posture is different, her stature, her confidence; all mimicking the serving girl they killed earlier. Arya wears her face as if it has always been her own.

 

The three men stare at her in disbelieving silence as she nods and slips through the door, leaving her bag behind, carrying the blankets that were inside it to cover her little sword. They wait for her signal, and when they hear it, they follow her into the main corridor. 

 

The air is heavy with silence. Ser Jaime turns slowly to get his bearings, and then turns left and gestures for them to follow.

 

They get all of five paces before they hear it; a door round the corner opening with a creak, and the unmistakable sound of armour moving.

 

There are four of them. They round the corner and spot the intruders before anyone has the time to react. The Hound grabs Arya and pulls her against him, holding a knife to her throat. The Goldcloaks look to the apparently innocent serving girl, then at her captor, then at Jaime Lannister, trying hard to avoid being seen behind the other three.

 

“Clegane.” Comes a hiss from one of their helmets. 

 

“Another step and she dies.” He presses the dagger into the exposed skin of Arya’s neck. 

 

Jorah is glad he sheathed his sword. He is quick on the draw, but if they are attempting a surprise attack, it wouldn’t do to have weapons ready. 

 

“That’s Ser Jaime. The Kingslayer.”

 

“The Queen’s brother.” Says Ser Jaime, his head high, a Lannister once more, staring at the Goldcloaks through narrowed green eyes, so like their queen’s. 

 

“Aye, and we heard her orders.” The one at the front, with a heavy Southern accent, turns to his men and nods.

 

In a flurry, the two flanking him surge at the intruders. The Hound throws Arya to one side, where she pretends to cower against the wall. Before Jaime can even draw his sword, The Hound has struck one guard across his helmeted head with a sickening clang, and used his disorientation to gut him through the small gap in his chainmail. His sword still sheathed in one, he kicks the other towards Jorah, who ducks under his ill-aimed swipe and slips Heartsbane up under his breastplate and into his belly. Their leader nods to the remaining man, who turns to run. A rare, sudden panic rises in Jorah’s throat, abated slightly as Arya, foreign face covered in false tears, stumbles after him in a feigned escape. The remaining man hesitates at the three standing before him, two of them holding bloody swords over his men’s fresh corpses.

 

It must not be said that he doesn’t do his duty. He aims for Jorah, clearly thinking he is the less intimidating target, and loses his arm for the decision, as Jorah notches his blade into the space between the steel coating it. Reeling from the injury, he barely notices The Hound drive his sword through his neck.

 

They allow themselves only a second to recover.

 

“The other will have gone to get help.”

 

“Arya followed him.”

 

They start off down the corridor, and round the corner.

 

Ten gleaming helmets, ten dazzling cloaks, face them, blocking the end of the corridor.

 

Arya stands behind them, still trembling convincingly, covering her head with her arms. 

 

“We were warned you might try to weasel your way back in here, Kingslayer.” Says a man at the front.

 

Jaime shrugs, taking several assured paces forwards until he is before the man who spoke. “It is my home, is it not?”

 

“It  _ was _ , until you abandoned your queen and rode North. Now, there’s a price on your head. Your bloody Lannister gold won’t do a thing in the face of the Queen’s orders.”

 

His jaw locks, and Jorah can see it; the chink in his armour of arrogance, his genuine hatred. They can harness that. He won’t betray them as long as it burns in him.

 

“Worth a shot.” He says, and swings his metal hand at the man with such force it knocks the helmet from his head. His sword is through the man’s face before he can right himself again.

 

The others leap into action. The air rings with the sound of steel on steel, blade through flesh, the splatter of blood as The Hound crushes a Goldcloak so hard into the wall his head collapses under his huge hand. The two that come at Jorah remind him of the sacking of Yunkai, and it is second nature to slip under the blade of one, rebound his force off the other, and use his elbow to knock one unconscious as he pierces the other through the slit of his visor. The force of withdrawing his blade causes him to lose his balance slightly, and he pays for it as a third guard’s, poorly aimed as it is, slides off his epaulet and scrapes along his upper arm. He shoves back, bringing Heartsbane up to parry, and throws his whole weight into the defensive maneuver. The guard stumbles, swinging a few more clumsy blows, but Jorah gets him up against the wall and finishes him.

 

Ser Jaime, not as impressive as he had once been, but surprisingly slick with his left hand, has two corpses at his feet. Jorah ducks to avoid another blow narrowly enough to hear it glide over his head, and slices past the man’s tasset and into his bowels. He gets to Ser Jaime just in time, knocking the guard he is grappling with off balance long enough for the Lannister to escape having his face split in half. His Goldcloak is huge, a head above them both, so, united in a way that only men facing death together can be, Jorah cuts the back of his knees open and, as he falls forward, Ser Jaime pushes his chin up so he falls throat-first onto his own sword.

 

He turns to see The Hound overwhelmed with three remaining men; valiantly battling two at once, but the third posing a problem as he goes for his neck. He moves quickly enough to divert the blow to an agonising puncture of his collarbone, blood coating his breastplate as it pours forth, but his sword is locked with the other two, swiping his boot out to trip the smallest of them. 

 

Jorah rushes to his aid, but Arya is there first. She climbs the third man like a squirrel up a tree and slides Needle into the base of his neck, where his head meets his spine. The confusion that takes over the other two is fatal; The Hound’s sword beheads one in a clean swoop, and he forces the other to the floor with his shoulder, finishing him despite his pleas for mercy.

 

After a moment of getting their breath back among the golden corpses, Ser Jaime says “They don’t train them like they used to…”

 

“Someone will have heard.” Says the girl, with Arya Stark’s voice, tucking her little sword back into her belt, not even bothering to hide it now.

 

“Ten Goldcloaks don’t go missing without someone noticing, we’ll be overrun in minutes. We better be close, Kingslayer.” Says The Hound, staunching his wound. His blood leaves spots on the floor, but he stands, and looks alert, and so it seems unlikely a serious vein has been severed.

 

“We’re not far. It’s through that door, then we follow the corridor right. There’s a junction of hallways a little while ahead. Each exit is usually guarded. That will be our biggest problem.”

 

“How many?” Asks Jorah, resheathing Heartsbane.

 

Ser Jaime’s eyes go a little duller. “Normally? Eight. As soon as they find out that fourteen of them are inexplicably missing? Probably a lot more. Clegane is right; it won’t be long until we have lost the element of surprise completely.”

 

“Then we just have to get to your sister before they do.” Says Jorah, nodding to Jaime to indicate that he should lead the way. He sees Arya scowl at The Hound as she tears off a section of the bedding she was carrying and offers it to him, indicating to his wound. He scowls back, but his eyes are softer as he snatches it and crams it between his collarbone and his breastplate.

 

They set off once more. Jorah’s heart is racing so much he can hear his pulse echoing around his skull. He thinks of the death he is running towards. He has faced many blades in his life, but something about confronting the reality of dying by them has instilled in him a most impractical and irritating fear. He thought cheating death would make him less afraid of it, but he’s seen what lies on the other side, the abject nothingness, the empty eternity, and to return to that, having never seen his queen on the throne she deserves, knowing he didn’t fulfill his promise to return to her, never seeing her smile, or her frown, or even her distant distaste again, makes him fear death in a way he never has before. Life may be less now, but it is still so much more than the alternative.

 

He will not die. She forbid it, and he will  _ never _ disobey her orders.

 

It must be almost morning. The long winter night is playing tricks on them; it has been hours since midnight.

 

The junction of the hallways is indeed guarded by eight men. They send Jaime into the fray.

 

“Halt! Who goes there?”

 

“The Queen’s brother, you oaf. A little less  _ gold _ , but still a knight,  _ ser _ .” He says. Jorah is impressed. Ser Jaime has been sullen, jumpy and  _ tormented _ for the past few days, the past few  _ weeks _ even, but now the situation calls for it, he slips seemingly back into charismatic arrogance. He hears the guards hesitate from the doorway behind which he is lurking with the other two.

 

“Ser Jaime?”

 

“Aye, ser, do you forget so soon?”

 

They pause for longer, but Jorah cannot hear them lowering their weapons.

 

“The Queen didn’t tell us to expect you.” Clearly some are better informed than others on the Queen’s position regarding her brother.

 

“The Queen doesn’t know I’m here.”

 

“Why are you here?”

 

“I’ve returned! I had a bit of a jaunt up North, but now I’m back here, where I belong. I thought I might surprise my royal sister.”

 

The sound of armour moving follows. Jorah holds his breath.

 

“Very good, ser. Follow me, I shall escort you.”

 

“No.” Says another voice.

 

“What?”

 

“No, ser. We shouldn’t take him to the Queen.”

 

“And why not?”

 

“I heard she gave orders. She wants him dead. Sent a man after him and the Imp, and everything.”

 

“Are you sure?”

 

“Aye.”

 

More silence, somehow even more heavy with foreboding tension.

 

“Are you alone?”

 

He hears Jaime snort indignantly. “Do I look like I brought friends?”

 

More silence. He can feel the hairs on his arms standing up. The back of his neck itches.

 

A gruff voice says “Take him.”

 

The sound of swords being drawn spurns Jorah on before he can think. Revealing himself is dangerous, but Ser Jaime has one hand and eight foes, and no, Jorah doesn’t trust him, but he will not stand back and listen as he dies.

 

The guards’ surprise at his appearance works to his advantage, and he takes down the two nearest to him while they waste precious seconds deciding which intruder to attack. Ser Jaime takes a sword to the thigh with a groan as Arya launches herself from the shadows, one of her seemingly hundreds of blades stuck in the guard’s eye. The Hound does not look pleased, but he launches himself into the fight after Arya regardless, elbowing men to the ground, pinning them against the wall on his sword.

 

These guards are not warriors, Jorah considers. They go down without much of a fight. They are not trained in how to attack as a unit, and hesitate long enough for quick, skilled fighters to catch them out. They are outnumbered two-to-one, and yet they stand triumphant at the end once more, in a hallway full of bodies.  

 

A sigh of relief, another small space to breath in the suffocating tension, a moment to let his shoulders sag and his heart race, his focus shifting as he realligns himself with a present un-blurred by immediate threat. 

 

The door to their right bursts open. A stream of silver floods the corridor. Five soldiers, ten, twenty…

 

They must know, somehow. Word must already be spreading. Perhaps a servant got away...

 

They swarm the four intruders, surrounding them in a tight circle, swords drawn.

 

There are too many. They cannot take them all and survive. Ser Jaime had warned them that it was another push until they were in Cersei’s proximity, but Jorah cannot remember in which direction. 

 

He flips Heartsbane, catching the hilt in his palm, feeling its reliable weight, its subtle,  _ beautiful  _ power. He thinks of House Tarly, of their legacy and their land. He imagines it is Longclaw, and the eyes of his ancestors are turned on him.

 

A man in the guard shouts an order Jorah doesn’t hear over his own heartbeat, and twenty swords push inwards.

 

It is seconds and centuries, then, in the midst of battle. His arm moves without his knowledge, guided by the memories of his muscles and some ancient connection the First Men must have to the blade. His years are left behind, shrinking in the distance, as he blazes forward, like the jewel is still in him, instilling fire directly into his heart. He swipes and stabs, deflects and dodges, feints and parries. He takes nick after nick; some barely scratches, some burying through several inches of exposed flesh. He kills three of them in the first foray, not thinking of who they are, only  _ what _ they are, and what they bar him from. The fourth bounces off The Hound’s barrel chest and takes a notch out of Jorah’s calf, but it hasn’t severed the tendon, so he swings his blade round to lodge it in the man’s wrist, almost slicing his hand off, and when he screams, Jorah slits his throat. 

 

The fifth is harder. Jorah kills two more, less experienced men, who attack him during the span of their fight, and after a haphazard stab in an unidentified chest, he turns back to this persistent warrior. He hears a high-pitched cry; Arya. She is pinned against the wall by a man who manages to get his blade so close to her head that it catches in the face she wears. The disguise saves her life; he is dumbstruck enough by the fact that her skin peels away on the tip of his sword to reveal another face that Ser Jaime has time to put his blade through his back. The Hound is bleeding badly. He is the most heavily targeted and yet the most ferocious in his attack. Jorah sees the pale crescent shapes of a guard’s ribs, poking out from below his breastplate, through his skin and muscle, from where Clegane has caved his chest in. He hears an agonized cry and catches a glimpse of a man facing The Hound, trembling, with his left eyeball hanging out of its socket. He hears a sickening  _ crunch _ over his shoulder as The Hound finishes him off.

 

The fifth is joined by two more. Jorah can barely move quickly enough to evade their attack. He gets a jab in between the rerebrace and pauldron of another, but the artery he cut doesn’t deliver a quick enough death. He is backed into a corner, the clash of metal on metal, of castle-forged against Valyrian steel, rings in his ears and rattles round his skull. He is glad his body is working without his knowledge, because he is beginning to tire, but he fends off blow after blow.

 

He is on the defensive. They  _ all _ are. They are  _ losing _ …

 

They cannot win this.

 

Ser Jaime’s leg wound has forced him to his knees. He almost takes a sword through the throat before The Hound wrenches the guard off him and flings him across the room. He pulls the one currently clinging to his back off too, and snaps his neck like a twig. Instead of killing the one that approaches him then, he ducks to avoid him so that he can lift Arya back to her feet, killing the man that stood over her. 

 

They cannot win this fight.

 

Ser Jaime, impaling a man through the gut on his sword, shouts over his shoulder to his allies.

 

“Fall back! Follow me!”

 

But Jorah can barely move to protect himself, let alone retreat. Ser Jaime is backing down one of the branching corridors, but the other three are trapped. He takes a blow to his temple, his head ringing, as he is thrown back against the wall. Still reeling, his gaze unfocused, his body giving into exhaustion, he is helpless to stop the sword that comes at him. 

 

It slides under his arm and through his chest, scraping through his ribcage, getting several inches in before Jorah can slip away far enough to dislodge it. He is crying out without realising it. There is a rush of panic from his head down to his knees, as the pain of being stabbed doesn’t come.

 

_ It is like last time _ , he thinks desperately.  _ The pain comes after. _

 

On the battlefield of the Dead, he had stood again and again, cutting down corpse after corpse, his wounds a dull tug in the back of his mind as all that raced before his eyes was ' _ protect her' _ . Now, the shock keeps the agony at bay, for now, but his mind is warped, his vision blurry, and the chaos and the noise and the ever-shrinking space between him and his enemies is overwhelming. He can barely deflect the blows aimed at his now-weakened form, and a particularly strong shove topples him.

 

The ground rushes up to meet him with surprisingly slowness. The men waste no time, kicking him for good measure, and several blades, too many to count, too few to matter in the grand scheme of things, turn on him at once, dangling above him like icicles in a black cave.

 

There is a distant commotion as his vision swims even more. Two of them are gone; one lifted off the ground by the huge shadow of The Hound, the other stabbed from behind, and Ser Jaime is there, grabbing Jorah by his arm and dragging him to his feet as The Hound brutalises the two left standing. Jorah is humbled by his incredible strength, disorientated in his new upright position, and then comes the pain, taking route in his chest and spreading across every inch of his skin.

 

He’s being pulled towards a new corridor. There is a door off to one side that Ser Jaime is shoving him towards. 

 

Where are they? Why are they here? Those men are his enemies, but why? Where can he find someone to make the pain stop? Is he going to die again?

 

_ Something blissful...something precious and pure...something worth fighting for, worth dying for, perhaps...an endless blue sky, a comet painting a flaming red trail across it, a mirage shimmering on the horizon, a clean shirt, a full stomach...dependency and disbelief, favour and gratitude, buried in depths of violet, shining out at him....chapped lips forming his name, blue silk on ivory skin, a cold chair covered in ash...the cry of the last dragon as it died, and the song of its ancestor as it rose...the promise of an island and the promise of a queen...that impossible, aching pull, that blissful agony, that sacred shame, that screamed across vast expanses of land and whispered in the space between words...things unsaid now said, things broken now fixed, things lost now found… _

 

_ “What do you pray for, Ser Jorah?” _

 

He doesn’t remember this delirium from last time. He can barely feel the floor beneath his feet, Ser Jaime’s grip on his arm, the sound of guards following them. He is vaguely aware of crying out as Jaime slings his arm over his shoulder and half-carries him to the door. 

 

Arya is there. Her nose is broken and bleeding. There is a chunk of her hair missing from the top of her head. She is breathing as heavily as the other two.

 

“Let’s go.” Says Jaime, heaving the door open. No guards follow them anymore. Their path is being blocked by the huge figure of The Hound, fending off blow after blow, stopping the guards getting through, but just as their numbers are whittled down to two, more appear from the stairwell, gleaming and regimented and ready for combat.

 

“ _ Go _ _!_ ” Shouts The Hound.

 

“Get over here,  _ no w _ _!_ ” Arya commands, her voice high and terrified.

 

“I’ll keep ‘em busy. You get the Queen.” He growls, throwing his full weight into a slash that sends one man reeling.

 

Everything is blurrier after that. Jaime forces him through the door, dragging a reluctant Arya with him, and then shutting it behind him. They are suddenly in the second floor cloisters of a square courtyard, the open air a welcome relief. Jaime heaves a wooden bench from the wall facing the garden and presses it against the door.

 

Jorah is struggling for air. He has lost a lot of blood, but he fears the blade punctured his lung, as he wrestles with a breathlessness like nothing he’s ever experienced.

 

Arya is in shock, staring with wide eyes at the floor. Jaime leans against the door, catching his breath.

 

“He’ll die.” Says Arya.

 

“He told us to leave. We honoured his last wish.” Says Ser Jaime.

 

“We should go back and fight with him.”

 

“If we do that, we all die. He’s bought us some time.”

 

“And what are we going to do about The Mountain now?”

 

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it…”

 

Their argument fades. His eyes are so heavy. He wants to close them. Maybe when he opens them again he’ll be able to see clearly.

 

“He’s hurt.”

 

“Mormont, can you hear me?”

 

He lifts his eyes to Ser Jaime. He looks mildly concerned.

 

“Where did they get you.”

 

Jorah tries to speak, but the words catch in his throat and the result is an incredibly painful coughing fit. Ser Jaime props him upright against the wall.

 

“Here.” He lifts his arm to indicate. Ser Jaime’s face turns grave.

 

“You’re losing a lot of blood.”

 

“Leave him. He can barely walk. We have to go now, they’ll find us here. That bench won’t hold.”

 

The girl has a point, Jorah thinks distantly.

 

“We can’t just leave him here to die.”

 

“But we can just leave The Hound?”

 

“The Hound wanted to be left. It was tactical. This one’s the last Mormont. Besides, if we return without him, the Dragon Queen will feed us to her  _ children _ .”

 

Arya scowls. Jorah is finding it difficult to focus on anything, as if he is slipping out of time entirely.

 

He closes his eyes against Jaime shaking his shoulder. He is somewhere else for the moment.

 

Sand and sun, but the sand is cold like ice and the sun blisters like winter winds. He stands, not on the edge of the world, as he’d thought he might, but in a barren nothingness, that is both familiar and unknowable. Another slow, lethargic blink, and  _ she _ is there again.

 

The Red Woman once more haunts his dreams, even when he is not sleeping.

 

But he has never seen her angry like this. It is as if she is actually on fire.

 

She strides towards him, and her fury is so palpable, like the heat of a pyre, like the shadow of a dragon, that he drops to his knees. The cold sand bites and prickles him through his breeches.

 

“They need more from you. This will not do.” Her voice echoes as if she shouted it, but insinuates itself into his ear from the inside, like she whispered it from within his head.

 

He cannot bring himself to speak; exhausted, terrified, defeated, he is frozen to the spot. She is blurred, as if his eyes cannot focus on her, like heat rising off scorched ground.

 

“One day, you will learn. Soon, you will see that you have been deemed worthy, and the Lord doesn’t make mistakes.”

 

She reaches down, and melts the chain of the shackles he has apparently been wearing the whole time without noticing. The heat spreads to the cuffs and starts to blister his skin.

 

“It is a noble death, to fall in battle, but this is the new world, Jorah The Andal, and there is no room in it for your personal glory.”

 

“...Why?” He manages. “Why me?”

 

She sighs, and it comes out as a snarl. “Because you are the last of your house, the last in an ancient bloodline going back to the First Men. Because this Winter has brought your house glory, and you are the only chance it has to continue.”

 

He doesn’t understand. Suddenly, she is clear. The blurriness is gone. She is in focus; she is at the centre of all of his senses.

 

“And, without a second thought, you would sacrifice all of that. You would give up everything, for a silver girl who wants to go home.”

 

Over her shoulder, he sees something. It is a dome rising brown and dusty from the sand. It is...a  _ tent _ ?

 

Before he can even think about replying, she has leaned down once more and shoved him,  _ hard _ , in the chest, where the pain starts. The force knocks the breath from him, sends him collapsing backwards into the sand, staring up at the sky, gasping for air, eyes streaming, voice ripping under the pressure of his screams.

 

And when he wrenches his eyes open again, he is sitting in an open passageway in a courtyard of the Red Keep, with Jaime Lannister looking at him like he’s seen his father rise from the grave.

 

Ser Jorah gets to his feet once he finds he has the strength to. He picks up his sword.

 

“Which way to Cersei?” He growls.

 

Ser Jaime looks relieved. “Follow me.”

 

They are a few paces into the cloisters before they turn to see Arya still staring a little mournfully at the barred door. There is still the sound of fighting coming from the other side. 

 

“Come  _ on _ .” Says Ser Jaime, and her face settles back into its usual unyielding ambiguity.

 

“Cersei’s solar is the next courtyard across. We will have to kill whoever is guarding her tonight, but it should be three against two.”

 

Jorah nods and follows him to the baluster and peers down into the courtyard. He sees nothing but a neatly-kept flower garden in the glow of the moonlight; no movement, no eyes staring back. Ser Jaime climbs onto the baluster and reaches up to grab the gutter above. Jorah and Arya watch as he hoists himself onto the roof.

 

Arya scrambles up after him with no problem. Jorah sighs. Filled inexplicably with life anew as he may be, he still  _ feels _ somewhat past his prime, and his days of tree climbing on Bear Island are long behind him. He wonders if the wound under his arm will take the strain of lifting his own body weight.

 

He goes slowly, making sure he has a solid grip before inelegantly scrambling up until his chest is pressed against the roof. When Ser Jaime reaches to help him, pulling his arm, he draws blood biting his own lip to stop the scream of pain. Arya gets him by the edge of his breastplate and helps Jaime drag him onto the roof. He lies on his back, stars before and behind his eyes, gasping lungfuls of air to move past the pain.

 

It feels incredibly strange to consider the first and last time he was here was when he was knighted, Robert Baratheon’s sword feeling like a blessing on his shoulders, and the press of his bladder like a curse, seeing his whole life ahead of him, as a lord and a knight, in good graces with the most important people in Westeros. Now, he has returned after several decades, crawling along its roofs like a common thief, intent on capturing its monarch, for a Targaryen girl he met halfway across the world. There is poetry in how history repeats itself, perhaps; to be in the new monarch’s favour, to be a lord and a knight, to be terrified of what might happen next.

 

When they reach the next courtyard, Jaime turns to whisper to them.

 

“We are one door away. I’m going to try and talk my way in again. If I succeed, drop down after I’ve entered and finish them off. If I fail, please don’t let me die outside my sister’s chambers.”

 

“Alright, and then what?” Asks Arya

 

“Then we’re inside. She keeps that  _ thing _ with her at all times, so he’s probably in there now. I’ll grab my sister, you two take care of The Mountain.”

 

“No. Me and you will fight The Mountain. Ser Jorah will get Cersei.”

 

“But-”

 

“He’s injured. He can’t fight as well. I’m too small to hold Cersei down and I don’t trust you with her.”

 

Jorah doesn’t like the idea of sitting on the sidelines, restraining a Lannister, while he watches the other two get crushed under Gregor Clegane’s might, but he has little room to argue with her logic.

 

“... _ Fine _ . Just, cover me, and follow me inside.”

 

Ser Jaime lowers himself down. It is only one floor, and a clean drop to the ground. He moves silently, shielded by the shadows, but Jorah can see the glint of Goldcloak armour under the covered passageway; two of them standing either side of a door. Cersei’s door.

 

Jaime looks back at them and nods to the opposite side of the roof, the section over where the guards are stationed. Jorah nods back, and he and Arya creep across the square perimeter and wait for his signal.

 

Ser Jaime limps, he is bleeding badly, but as soon as he gets into view of the guards, his spine straightens, and he walks with confidence.

 

They fumble in their drowsiness at his approach, but both pull their swords on him.

 

“Please, I need to see my sister. It is urgent. She sent for me.”

 

“She didn’t tell us she was expecting you.” Says one of the guards. Jorah recognises his voice. Maybe they fought together once, or fought against each other.

 

“Of course not, that’s why I’ve had to come here unaccompanied, it is all to be kept a secret. And only a fool would deny her brother entry into her chamber.”

 

A beat of silence.

 

“Why should we believe you?”

 

“Look. I’m alone. Unaccompanied and entirely vulnerable. I am here to speak with her. I am the last person in Westeros who would try to kill my sister.”

 

These guards must be better acquainted with Ser Jaime, or know more about the Queen’s personal relationships, because Jorah hears them conferring in hushed murmurs. It is becoming increasingly clear that briefing and training her guard is not something Cersei is particularly efficient at.

 

_ Then again, if I had The Mountain protecting me, I don’t think I’d worry too much _ , thinks Jorah.

 

“Give us your sword.”

 

_ Oh _ .

 

“I don’t think I will. I never feel quite right without it.”

 

“We’re not letting you see the Queen with your sword.”

 

“Honestly? You think I’m going to run my own sister through in her chambers, at night, like a coward?”

 

“You stabbed a King in the back. I don’t think anything is beneath you.” Sneers one of them.

 

“Fine.” Jorah hears him unbuckle his scabbard.

 

_ The blood. They will see the blood _ , he thinks.

 

And he presumes he is right. 

 

“What have you been doing, Kingslayer?”

 

“Ran into a little trouble in Fleabottom.”

 

“This is fresh.”

 

“I’m a fast runner.”

 

Jorah imagines they move to apprehend him, because there is a loud  _ clang _ of metal on metal, and he leaps down from the roof immediately followed by Arya. Jaime has knocked one out with his false hand. The other has his sword. He is unarmed.

 

Jorah’s wound screams in protest as his blade meets the guard’s in the air. The ringing is too loud; Cersei may well have heard it from the other side of the door. He thinks he does recognise the man’s face. He cannot bring to mind a name, but he is sure that at some point they were comrades. He wonders if the man recognises him.

 

He doesn’t have time to wonder. The guard puts up a noble fight, but is powerless against the three of them. Arya takes out his legs and when Jaime has his sword back, he slits his throat. Red pours pleasingly down his chest, over his golden armour, staining his white cloak from behind.

 

Arya, with a chilling coolness, pads over to his unconscious comrade and presses the narrow blade of her sword into his throat with practised ease. He comes to, coughing and choking, just in time to be aware of his own passing.

 

Then they face the door. Jorah can swear he hears footsteps in the distance, shouting muffled by wooden doors, the stirring of the royal guard somewhere close by in the castle. His shoulder  _ burns _ .

 

No time to talk, no time to think, they burst into the Queen’s chambers.

 

Jorah thought they would find her in her bed. He had not expected to find her awake, dressed, corseted and crowned, staring out at the city from the archway to her balcony, as if waiting for her ambush.

 

When she turns, it becomes apparent that she  _ wasn’t _ waiting for them, as surprise rips through her regal features and her eyes flit over brown and blue briefly before they lock firmly on their own shade of green.

 

Jorah cannot begin to fathom the intricacies in the look the twins give each other then. It is a language he could never hope to speak, and frankly would never want to, the long years and knotted emotions woven into a single gaze. Cersei, like her twin, looks worse for wear. Her regal beauty is tarnishing round the edges. She carries her shoulders forward, her face is more haggard, her complexion pallid, her eyes less vibrant. She is not quite a ghost, not quite a shadow, but perhaps more like a wax copy of the queen he’d seen at the meeting in the Dragon Pit. The weight of everything has taken its toll. She has retreated into the colder, tighter, lonelier space behind her eyes.

 

He cannot dwell on her for long, as his attention is almost immediately pulled to the only other person in the room. Cersei must be quite a lion to have drawn his eye first.

 

_ Was he always that huge?! _

 

Gregor Clegane stands off to her right. His bulk is such that he looks like he almost doesn’t fit the room. His face is covered by his helm, and vacant, bloodshot eyes stare unblinking from out of his visor. His greatsword is taller than Arya. 

 

A moment of silence follows. The two parties stare at each other across the fragrant airiness of Cersei’s private chamber. Jorah hadn’t prepared himself to face her awake and dressed, and they immediately lose the advantage of her being disorientated if they’d caught her sleeping.

 

Then, there is the sound of shouts, echoing from the cloisters. They are near.

 

Arya leaps into action, slamming the door behind her and barring it with a chair.

 

“Grab her.” She says. It is not a shout, but a dangerous, level command. Jorah moves on instinct. As he sheaths his sword, he notes with some degree of surprise that his wound is giving him less trouble than it was a few minutes before. 

 

_ It must be because my blood is up. I shall feel it once this is done, like before, on the battlefield _ .

 

The Mountain goes to bar his path to Cersei, but Arya and Jaime are already there. Clegane is huge, more powerful than Khal Drogo, more terrifying than the undead giant that stormed Winterfell, but he is slow, and while Jaime deflects his sword at the hilt, ducking under his swing, Arya slices across the back of his ankles. He doesn’t fall, as most men would, he barely even stumbles, but it’s enough to allow Jorah time to reach the Queen.

 

Cersei’s eyes are wild and dangerous, and for a moment he is afraid, before he easily deflects her clumsy attempt at a blow with her fist. He holds her wrists behind her back as she hisses and spits, like a cornered wildcat, the venom in her eyes almost enough to paralyse a lesser man. It feels... _ odd _ , uncomfortable, to pin a woman against her own chamber wall as she curses and kicks, but he focuses all his attention on making sure she cannot get hold of a weapon to fight back with.

 

He restrains her against him and looks to the others.

 

Arya is a viper in combat. She slips between The Mountain’s legs as he swings and pokes her little blade through as many holes in his armour as she can reach. He seems reluctant to bleed, and Jorah is made aware of a foul smell emanating from him, like rot, like death, that only seems to get stronger the more hits she lands on his huge person. He is so caught up in Arya’s skill, like watching a fly run rings round a bull, and keeping the now-trembling queen against his chest that he briefly forgets about Jaime Lannister. 

 

He hasn’t moved after the initial attack. He is rooted to the spot. His eyes are distant, like his soul has left his body behind. His empty, terrified gaze flicks between his sister and her bodyguard. 

 

Jorah wraps an arm around Cersei’s stomach to secure her and rests his hand on the pommel of Heartsbane, watching and waiting for the Kingslayer to make the wrong move.

 

But he doesn’t. He makes no move at all. He stands there, sword in hand, a lonely tower with a storm raging behind high walls, staring, thinking, and doing nothing.

 

And Arya is beginning to tire. 

 

“ _ Kingslayer _ .” Jorah hisses at him, then, when that gets no response; “ _ Jaime _ _!_ ”

 

His eyes meet Jorah’s for a second, and he cannot see the bottom of them, before they go back to staring at Cersei, as she pleads with him to help her. Jorah covers her mouth with his hand.

 

Arya slips on the dodge, and the clang of The Mountain’s armour colliding with her skull is painful just to hear. She staggers, and The Mountain knocks her again, this time to the ground. She cannot get to her feet in time, and he kicks her against the wall. Jorah hears her ribs crack.

 

She curls in on herself, blood spilling from too many sources on her face to pinpoint. Like a child with a ragdoll, he bends slowly to lift her by the front of her tunic and pin her to the wall, playing with his toy rather than simply discarding it once it is broken. Jorah winces in despair as he levels a blow at her stomach, her face, her chest, her shoulder, her throat, and she screams and screams. 

 

Jaime Lannister is weeping, still frozen, still staring helplessly at his sister, his face wet with the realisation of his own ineptitude. Jorah’s voice is hoarse from screaming at him to do something,  _ anything _ .

 

There is noise from the door. Someone is shouting on the other side of the heavy wood, throwing their weight against the barricade, trying to get in.

 

Jorah thinks of discarding the Queen to go and help Arya. There is nothing near him that he could use to restrain her, even if he could get her still enough to tie her up. But he cannot let the girl die. He cannot watch and do nothing. But Daenerys needs Cersei, they cannot waste this opportunity, and with her in front of him, they can hold her hostage until Daenerys arrives. If he lets her go to rush to the Stark’s aid, they will not get her back.

 

There comes a tugging in his veins, his Mormont blood wailing at him;  _ protect House Stark, the rulers of the North, the people we follow into death, and always have.  _

 

He is lord of his house. He is sworn by centuries of shared blood and bread to House Stark. It is a duty of protection he can barely resist.  _ Here we stand. With the Starks. _

 

He cannot fail Daenerys. He cannot fail his family. He cannot release the greatest threat to their conquest. He cannot watch an innocent girl die.

 

Arya wriggles free and drops to the floor, but Jorah suspects Clegane let her. He watches her drag her broken body along the flagstones, reaching the blade she dropped, not done fighting,  _ never _ done fighting, but visibly afraid,  _ truly  _ afraid, for the first time since Jorah met her. 

 

_ Not today. Not today.  _

 

The Mountain reaches down to grab her. Jorah watches helplessly as he lifts the little wolf off her feet and slowly starts to crush her with his enormous grip.

 

She screams like the sound is being squeezed from her lungs. 

 

_ “JAIME, HELP HER, NOW! _ ”

 

His heart is thudding, his muscles trembling as he clings onto the Queen, refusing to remove his hand even when her teeth make him bleed. He watches in horror as Arya’s eyes roll back in her head. The door begins to rattle on its hinges. They are almost through.

 

In a flicker of movement, she gets her blade through his visor’s slit and into his left eye. 

 

Silence; the moment hangs in the air.

 

The Mountain barely seems to notice the sword buried in his face.

 

Jorah hears more ribs break.

 

“ _ JAIME _ _!_ ” He roars, over Cersei’s own desperate attempts at speech, thrashing in his grasp. 

 

Arya Stark is so small in his hands, her legs dangling, her blood dripping steadily down from her increasingly limp form. 

 

He cannot do it. Whether Northern lord, or Targaryen bannerman, he is first and foremost a man, and his compassion has and always will be his downfall, even if it is his greatest pride. He will stand, even if it means death for both of them.

 

He releases his grip on Cersei to reach for his sword.

 

The door flies from its hinges, the chair falling uselessly to one side.

 

Cersei and Jorah pause to look. Jaime is still frozen. Arya’s eyes slip closed.

 

A sword is drawn, and there is a great guttural cry, a cry of passion and fury, and the figure blazes forward.

 

Almost unrecognisable under all of the blood, Sandor Clegane slices his brothers hands off at the wrist in a single swing.

 

Arya, and The Mountain’s hands, fall to the floor.

 

The Cleganes clash, with The Hound throwing his full weight against his brother, pushing him backwards with an unbelievable rush of force. Arya lifts her head, Ser Jaime drops to the ground in shock, and all Jorah is certain of is the Queen, equally stunned into immobility, in his grip.

 

The Mountain crashes into the archway leading to the balcony, The Hound’s shoulder against his chest. He throws a punch, but forgets he has no hands, and all it does is cover Sandor in more dark, rancid-smelling blood, blood they used to share. There is a struggle of such strength that the pair barely move from where the smaller has the larger against the brickwork. For a single, elongated second, The Hound turns his dented, disfigured head to look at Arya, breathing weakly on the floor, but staring back nonetheless, and a look of heartbroken understanding takes control of her usually stoic face. Ser Jorah swears he sees The Hound's mouth form a faint, bitter smile.

 

With a roar, he puts every last vestige of strength into pushing The Mountain out onto the balcony. He charges, his face gleeful in its expressiveness and tragic in its condition, and before Arya can yell anything more than a wordless sound, The Mountain is driven over the balustrade, his brother still clinging to him, and they fall together into the dawn. 

 


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a day early! Lucky you!
> 
> I had such a WONDERFUL response to the last chapter, which was a huge confidence boost! I'm so glad you all liked it. The next two are aftermath chapters, but with important dynamics explored, so bear with me. It's so weird having free rein now I have effectively eviscerated canon.
> 
> Enjoy x

 

_ “Hold him there until I can see him.” _

 

_ “He will not be forgiven this time. He has pushed his luck too far.” _

 

_ “Forgive me, brother. It is merely a formality.” _

 

In the grand scheme of things, no one can say he did anything wrong.

 

He did what he promised he would, didn’t he? He got them into the Red Keep, got them to Cersei, and lost a sizeable chunk of his thigh for his trouble. He promised he would help, and he did. He promised he wouldn’t betray them, and he didn’t.

 

They cannot kill a man for doing nothing.

 

_ Can they? _

 

He has been in the cell for weeks, he thinks. It is difficult to tell. The capital is waiting, holding its breath, sitting obediently while the conquering forces gather. Tyrion arrived several days before, with an army of Northmen, wildlings and Dothraki. Tyrion said some of Sansa’s forces had ridden day and night to arrive in King’s Landing to represent the Lady of Winterfell when Daenerys seizes power, but he neglected to specify who. Jaime can only guess at the political intricacies of a takeover, but it has not been brought to him personally. They have tucked him out of sight until Daenerys is ready to address him, until she has the  _ time _ to deal with him. Perhaps they are afraid he’ll try and break Cersei out. If anything, he has taken one step forward and two steps back on the road to gaining their trust.

 

Despite everything, he has been imprisoned in much worse conditions. The cell is clean, has a window and natural light, and it is not a particularly horrible one. They have taken his sword, but not his hand, and they haven’t even put him in chains. Tyrion seems to have been right; this  _ feels _ like a formality rather than a sentence.

 

His sister is in another cell. A darker cell, somewhere deep below the castle, surrounded by Northmen and Dothraki, shackled and shivering, betrayed and alone.

 

_ And vengeful. And angry, and empty, and mad. _

 

_ Barely his sister anymore _ .

 

She was always cruel, but she was never cold. She ran hot and passionate like steaming water bubbling from the ground, like molten gold hissing as it is forged into a crown.

 

He made the right decision. He will not survive if he doesn’t believe that.

 

_ We’re the only ones in the world that matter. Only us, forever, and what do we have to fear from everyone else, when they are so small? _

 

He wonders, if it still had the capacity, would his heart break? Is there enough of him left to mourn the man he used to be, the life he used to lead, the woman he used to love?

 

The terrible things he has done...the people he turned his back on...the lies he told and the lives he ended... _ and for what _ ? For family? For love? To end up in a cell in a castle he used to call home for doing what he promised he would? For not doing what he couldn’t?

 

The clang of the door being unlocked draws his attention from his pit of self-pity. In walks the person he’d like to have an audience with the least in his current state.

 

Brienne’s nose twitches in distaste at the size of his cell, but she says nothing. She stands in full plate, the sword he gave her strapped to her hip, the top of her blonde head almost brushing the damp stones of the ceiling. She looks...rather wonderful; righteous, imposing, proud, and just. He, by comparison, feels small, dirty and wretched.

 

But then she looks to him, and her huge eyes soften, and suddenly she’s human again; the same doleful and blundering wench he’d spent months traipsing through the kingdom with. 

 

He cannot even bring himself to greet her scathingly.

 

“Ser Jaime.”

 

He lets his head drop forward a fraction.  _ Why is she here? _

 

Of course, Sansa Stark would send her most reliable bodyguard as part of her representative party. He doesn’t know if he hadn’t guessed she would be there, or if he hadn’t dared to.

 

“Yes?”

 

She grows awkward, and shifts where she stands. She takes in the blood dried on his breeches and his temples.

 

“How are your wounds? Your brother said none were fatal, but I imagine with what you fought through, they were all painful.”

 

“Why are you here, Brienne?”

 

Her brow furrows.  _ Pity _ , he thinks,  _ she pities me. _

 

“I am here to see you, Ser Jaime. I was worried.”

 

“Worried for a common criminal?”

 

“You’re not a criminal.”

 

“I’m in a cell.”

 

“They are wary, that’s all. You stood by and watched Arya Stark get beaten to a pulp. That looks like treachery to Daenerys Targaryen, who already didn’t trust you.”

 

He  _ had _ done that. He can barely remember. The world swam and faded, and all he could see was green; his sister’s eyes swimming with tears, turning liquid, becoming wildfire.  _ Burn them all _ .

 

He thought he was strong enough. He was wrong. He wasn’t a lion, he was a kitten cowering under the parlour steps, waiting for the storm to pass.

 

“How is she?”

 

Brienne sighs. She moves to the opposite wall and sits down with her back against the stone, so she is at his level.

 

“She is physically well, but she has not spoken a word since we put her in the cell. She will not eat or drink. It is obvious that she’d rather take her own life than let Daenerys do it for her.”

 

“Not Cersei. Arya. How is Arya?”

 

Brienne looks surprised. Another soft emotion warping her face into something vaguely pleasant to look at. Damn woman.

 

“Arya is healing. She cannot move. Most of her ribs were broken, but fortunately her lungs don’t seem to be damaged. She looks terrible, and has broken many bones, but she appears to be getting better. She will likely live.”

 

He sighs, exhaling more relief for the survival of a Stark.  _ Her blood is not on my hands if she lives. My weakness did not cost a brave little girl her life. _

 

“Good.” He says. “She took a thrashing.”

 

“She bought everyone time.” Says Brienne.

 

Tyrion, the only other person with whom he has had a proper conversation with since the takeover, told him most of what he needed to know. Both Cleganes had been found, smashed against the pavement outside the castle, their body parts indistinguishable amongst the chaos. Cersei had been taken prisoner. The city was no longer under threat of siege, and with the Northern army arriving with supplies and words of peace, the citizens for the most part were more than content to accept the invaders’ terms and bow to Daenerys as the new ruler. She has not been crowned formally yet, nor has she executed Cersei, instead waiting for her assembled support to arrive in the capital and secure her rule. Despite being raised across the Narrow Sea, so far away from Westerosi government, she knows what she is doing, and has been sensible about something Jaime knows is of deep emotional value to her. That, or she has some good advisors.

 

He remembers the hours spent waiting for her. It had been almost more than he could handle. Every guard in the palace was at the door, too afraid to move, too confused to act, as Ser Jorah held a sword to Cersei’s throat and a hand over her mouth. A single false move, and he would kill her, and Jaime believed him. He had nothing to lose, and everything to gain, from ridding the world of Cersei Lannister. The bear’s blood was staining his sister’s gown.

 

The hostage situation lasted until the sun rose. He’d come back somewhat to his senses only to run to the balcony and vomit off it, then return in a stupor to his post inside the chamber. Arya’s breath rattled through the tensely silent chamber, her blood dripping, then pooling. To distract himself from the overwhelming threat of the guards outside the door, and the wordless pleas of his sister, helpless and crying in Mormont’s steadfast grasp, he tore up her bedding and tried to bandage up the Stark girl as best he could. He wanted to hold Cersei, just for a moment, just to smell her hair and kiss her cheek, to tell her everything would be alright, as he once had, to feel the life inside her that he now doubted was even there. 

 

_ She didn’t look pregnant. She had none of the symptoms she carried last time. Was it all a lie? _

 

He didn’t. He didn’t even ask. He blindly obeyed when Ser Jorah told him to pull the chord down from the canopy of her bed so he could bind her hands. He knew that if he held her, he would release her, as was his instinct. He could hold her for a minute, cling to her desperately for a time, but at some point, sooner or later, he’d always had to let her go, and always  _ would _ have to let her go. She would not be held down for long.

 

Daenerys came just in time. Jaime had placed a bench against the door, but the royal guard were growing restless with confusion and indecision, murmuring increasingly louder. Two men, especially the crippled Kingslayer and aging Mormont, could not hold them all off. The great thunder of wings overhead finally drew their attention. 

 

The new Queen had arrived astride her huge and terrible beast, that had swooped over the head of every citizen in King’s Landing and made a straight path towards the seat of their oppression. 

 

Drogon’s claws tore chunks out of the palace as he landed, and Daenerys, untouchable upon his back, shouted to the guards that gathered in Cersei’s solar that she was to be surrendered to her.

 

Whatever kindlings of love the men may have felt for their Queen shrivelled in the face of a dragon.

 

King’s Landing had surrendered without a fight after that.

 

Other information had leaked down to Jaime while he was taken prisoner and held in the dungeons of the castle. Both Cleganes were dead, Ser Jorah had survived his injuries yet again, and Arya was still breathing when they took her to the maesters. Cersei was taken alive and was being held until a trial, which Jaime knew would end in execution. And he was held a prisoner too, as Arya and Jorah relayed how he had stood and done nothing as they’d taken the Queen; Arya out of spite and Ser Jorah out of apparent genuine concern for his loyalties.

 

They have a new Queen. A queen that doesn’t just promise dragons in her words and across her banners, but delivers them.

 

“What will they do with me?”

 

Brienne, honest as ever, chews on her lip before delivering the truth.

 

“I don’t know. Daenerys will want your head for jeopardising the capture, but Tyrion has talked you both out of more certain death before.“

 

“As I recall, the last time I stood before the new Queen and she wanted me executed, Tyrion’s words did nothing. It was  _ you _ who made the successful appeal.”

 

“That was different. It was stupid to dismiss you over something that happened so long ago, especially since she didn’t know the whole story. I only told the truth.”

 

“How many times will you save my life before you let me thank you for it?”

 

For the first time in weeks, something stirs Jaime’s stomach that isn’t hunger, anxiety or despair, at the sight of her blush, flowering in blotches over her cheeks. His affection has caught her off guard, and the sight doesn’t just make him somewhat happy, it actually  _ amuses _ him.

 

“Perhaps one more time. We’ll see.”

 

He manages a smile. He watches her eyes trace it.

 

“So, are you going to talk to Daenerys for me? I’d feel much safer that way.” The tension broken, he feels a little more like himself.

 

“I haven’t even seen her. She’s too busy. She probably doesn’t even remember you’re in here.”

 

“Good to know how important my presence is.”

 

“From what I could gather, Ser Jorah described what happened in detail, and they wouldn’t have even got close to Cersei if it wasn’t for you. That will count for something.”

 

“So my fate rests with a man that will tell her whatever she wants to hear. Great.”

 

“Ser Jorah is honest. I don’t think he wants you dead. It’s in Daenerys’ better interests to keep as many Lannisters alive and on her side as possible, and I think he knows that.”

 

He snorts. “All this talk of building a new world and she still values our family name?”

 

“It’s difficult to build a house without foundations, I suppose.”

 

“So if I am lucky she will free me from here and instead confine me in Casterly Rock to breed and behave and do what she says?”

 

Brienne rolls her eyes, her solemn disposition cracking for a second of familiarity. “ _ Please _ . Living out the rest of your life in one of the grandest castles in the Kingdom, as the heir to one of the most respected families, with a no doubt worthy wife and lots of children to keep you entertained. Tell me how that is a punishment?”

 

“It isn’t the life I chose for myself before.”

 

“No, you chose Cersei. And instead of being punished, you are being rewarded, in the eyes of most.”

 

“I never did like the idea of being told who to marry.”

 

“Well, whoever Daenerys gives you, you must take. It wouldn’t do well to insult her if she is to spare you.”

 

“Perhaps I should marry you.”

 

She laughs; a shocked and undignified sound. There is something bitter in her smile. 

 

“That would be a more apt punishment, perhaps.”

 

_ She thinks I’m joking. _

 

_ I am joking, yes? _

 

“I don’t see anyone else who would take me. Certainly none of the high lords left would wed their daughters to a one-handed disgraced king-slayer. My first name is so tarnished my surname barely matters anymore.”

 

She rolls her eyes. “You are being over dramatic. Besides, who said I would take you?”

 

“Wouldn’t you?”

 

_ Oh no, fair maiden, you are not escaping. We are addressing this now, in my cell, in the dawn of a new era. _

 

Her smile drops, her solemnity is back. He watches her swallow. Cersei’s throat was always so delicate he wondered how it kept her head up so high. Brienne’s neck is thick, strong, and so like a man’s he is half shocked not to see the lump that marks a low voice.

 

“Are you trying to make me believe you want to marry me?”

 

_ Oh.  _ It is easy to press her to speak plainly, but turned back so suddenly on him he shrivels under her stare.

 

He shrugs.  _ A coward once again _ . 

 

“If I  _ have  _ to marry someone, it might as well be you. We’re friends after all.”

 

Her expression is unreadable for once. 

 

_ How can she not see _ ? How can she possibly be ignorant of it, when it drips from him so clearly? Can’t she read it in how he cannot look at her for too long for  _ some reason _ ? Can’t she hear it when his voice breaks? Can’t she see it brewing, stewing,  _ spilling _ from his face as he cannot hold it in any longer? He feels full, full to the brim, as he has for most of his life, of  _ something _ . It is a steadily-rising tide that he was taught to hide as a boy and resist as a man and whenever she speaks or moves or  _ looks at him _ it grows restless.  _ He _ grows restless. How can she be so blind to something so inevitable?

 

“Yes, we’re friends.” She finally says, as if it has just dawned on her. It is only then, when the guilt has ebbed in the face of this new conversation, that Jaime lets himself feel happy to see her. There is a moment of contemplative quiet as they consider how this soft, subtle, not-quite-confession will alter their relationship. Then Brienne sighs. 

 

“They found Ellaria Sand.” She says.

 

“What?”

 

“Oberyn Martel’s paramour.”

 

“I know who she is.” Jaime growls. Anger floods him.

 

“She was in the dungeons. One of the deepest, we only found her when searching the castle for any remaining supporters of Cersei. She hasn’t seen the sun in months. It looks like she was being force-fed. There was…” 

 

Jaime barely hears her over the grinding of his jaw, but looks up when she falters.

 

“There was  _ what _ ?” He hisses.

 

“...There was a body with her. Her daughter’s. It was in an almost unrecognisable state of decay. It had been there for months, too.”

 

Watching her daughter rot. For  _ months _ . Unable to die. He cannot imagine a worse horror.  Yet the Lannister in him feels  _ triumphant _ . His sister was nothing if not creative, and she hadn’t told him about this particular punishment, maybe worried he’d try to show her mercy and free her, as he did with Tyrion. 

 

“Good.” He says before he knows he’s spoken.

 

She looks incredulous. “ _ What ?  Good?! _ ”

 

“She killed the princess.”

 

_ She deserved it _ , a gnarled and ugly voice in his head says. He thinks of Myrcella, his daughter at last, collapsing in his arms, with nothing he could do to protect her. Her fair innocent face, always joyful and expressive, turning cold and stony with death. He remembers the last glitter of warmth leave Cersei’s eyes as the boat reached the shore. 

 

Their sweetest, mildest, warmest child. What gods must he thank for Myrcella, born among vipers and sinners, with a rotten family tree sharing her roots, one brother malicious and the other terrified, and yet she remained so strongly sweet. A perfect angel. Her murderer deserved the wrath of all Seven Hells, and it seems like she’d had it.

 

“I heard she’d died...but I didn’t know...I’m sorry.”

 

“My sister may be a monster, but that woman had to be punished.”

 

“...Then you won’t like what I have to say.” She begins grimly. “She was Daenerys’ ally before, and is so once more now. The Queen will likely give her Dorne.”

 

“ _ Give her Dorne?! _ ”

 

“She trusts her. They fought on the same side. Daenerys probably feels guilty for what happened to her after she was captured. She’ll want an ally she knows ruling over Dorne, not some distant bastard prince she’s never met. Which means if you wish to find a place in her new world, at some point you will have to meet Ellaria in the middle.”

 

“I will  _ never  _ be congenial with the woman that killed Myrcella.” He manages, shocked at how steady his voice sounds through his clenched teeth.

 

“I don’t think anyone is expecting that. Just...don’t declare war on her. The kingdoms have fought amongst themselves for too long now, and with Daenerys’ takeover, there might actually be a chance at peace...and  _ unity _ …”

 

“That seems unlikely. I thought you were here representing Sansa Stark. What does  _ she _ think about bowing to Daenerys?”

 

Brienne draws her lip between her teeth. Her eyes flick to the corner of the cell as she thinks. Jaime follows the way her long, dexterous fingers worry the hem of her tunic.

 

“I have not been sent with demands, nor words of warning. I am an envoy of peace for the execution and coronation. If Sansa wants an argument, if Sansa wants a  _ war _ , she will wait until Daenerys has killed Cersei.”

 

Jaime knows why. He may be commonly perceived as the least intelligent of his siblings, but he’s had enough insight, and  _ certainly _ enough time to think recently, that he can make a pretty good guess as to what will happen next.

 

“She won’t broach it until her and Daenerys are sisters.”

 

Brienne’s huge eyes widen, but she dips her head down in what  _ may _ be a nod.

 

“I don’t know the dynamic very well, nothing more than what I’ve observed and even then I’m not as good as some at reading relationships, but I’d imagine Jon will back his family before Daenerys. It’s in Stark blood to be loyal to the North.”

 

“It seems Sansa will gamble on that too.”

 

“I don’t imagine it will be the last we hear of whispers of the King in the North.”

 

Jaime doesn’t imagine it will be ‘King’, but he doesn’t say anything.

 

“I suppose I will have to live with it, if I get to live.”

 

The look she fixes him with is soft, abandoning their foolish charade of mutual dislike that only they are involved in and that cannot be maintained, and yet there doesn’t seem to be much pity in it now. He thanks the gods that she knows not to show him any more pity.

 

_ Run away with me,  _ he almost says.  _ Run away with me now I am cut loose, and there is nothing drawing me to the point of snapping. Run away, now anything might mean everything and the world is different, finally… _

 

_ Coward.  _

 

“I will come and see you as much as I can. There’s a lot to be done. The Keep is like an ant’s nest and no one is stopping to take breath. But I will return. I won’t forget you’re down here.”

 

“Thank you, Brienne.” He says softly.

 

Mutual respect blossoms from resentment like a stubborn sapling from cold ground, twisting into the sun. She pushes herself to her feet as she prepares to leave, and he prepares to be alone with his tempestuous thoughts once more, but she seems keen to offer him some respite at least, as she approaches him and bends down to his level.

 

“I’m sorry, Jaime. I know this must be...well, it must be  _ awful _ …”

 

“It is no less than what we deserve.”

 

“What  _ she _ deserves.” She asserts firmly.

 

One day he shall tell her everything, he thinks. He will sit with her, away from loud noises and other people, and tell her enough of his past to try and dull the glow of respect she holds for him in her eyes. He will chip at it, sand it down, melt it until it is nothing, and she will see him for what he truly is. He will tell her how the flicker of moral hesitation was just that, a  _ flicker _ , before he pushed a ten year old out of a window. He will tell her how his cousin’s eyes bulged in panic and betrayal as he strangled him with his chains. He will tell her his dreams of killing Loras Tyrell, who would steal his sister, of killing Margaery Tyrell, who was stealing his sons, of being rid of the whole lot of them, so the only people left standing were called Lannister. He will tell her how he’d torn Cersei’s gown, forced her to the ground, and taken her as she cried by the corpse of their child. He will tell her how the gold hides filth and rot. But not now, not today, because he needs that respect to shine out at him a little longer.

 

She has the gall to kiss him then, pressing her lips to his cheek, as he had done to her in a moment of madness in Winterfell when no one could see and night and drink cloaked the hallway. It is a gentle gesture that he doesn’t deserve. He blinks back shameful tears. When she moves away, she brushes his blood off her lips. 

 

“I’m going to ask them to send a maester. You need to be cleaner. This wound should have closed by now.” She indicates to the cut at his temple, that he’d reopened as he thrashed in his sleep. 

 

“Brienne…”

 

“It wouldn’t do to lose you to illness after all this.” She says, turning from him to hide her face. 

 

“I’ll come back.” She promises again as she leaves. He believes her, but the sentiment doesn’t seem final enough. 

 

He lifts his fingers to wipe the blood from his cheek.

  
  
 


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! This is another admin-y chapter, but there's some important stuff here too. This bit might come across a bit slow because of how much nonsense I have to untangle from the mess the show left it in. It's gonna get quicker after this chapter once I've made stuff make sense.
> 
> The first scene is something I have wanted to write since I started watching the show, so I hope I do them both justice.
> 
> Valyrian translations at the bottom (sorry it's a pain, but I didn't want to ruin the immersion. None of it is that essential to understand anyway)
> 
> Thanks for your feedback, as we get further away from the end of the show, knowing you guys are reading is more important than ever, so thanks for your time and the nice things you say xxx

“Gaoman pāsagon bisy daor.” says Grey Worm. His eyes are glittering shards of dragonglass. His fist is tight round his longspear.

 

“Ziry mijegon kustikāne. Ziry ōdrikagon nyke daor.” Her voice is soft yet certain. She stands like a scaffold, a gallows, casting her elongated shadow across Cersei Lannister’s crumpled form. She kneels, but it is not out of respect. Her skin is drawn over her cheekbones like parchment. Her gaze is dull. Her lips recede into the skin of the rest of her chin, dry and colourless. She is defeated, but her resoluteness tells Daenerys that she is taking some triumph in the fact that she is dying by her own hand, by her own refusal to eat, and not Daenerys’.

 

“Ēza prūmia daor.” He continues.

 

“Nyke gīmigon. Bisa kēlio angogon daor.” She replies.

 

“Iā kēlio kostagon va moriot angogon.”

 

The words do not come low and sturdy from her general’s lips, but instead slip past a cracked, sickened smile and drip down to the cold floor. Cersei Lannister raises her head. The hatred sits in her face like scum upon a lake. Daenerys is silent, and stares at her, genuinely surprised.

 

“I am the only daughter of Tywin Lannister. I was once the most valuable commodity in the Realm, the most eligible woman in all Seven Kingdoms, and you think I would not be taught to speak Valyrian?”

 

Daenerys has nothing to hide from this woman. She will be dead by noon the following day. Anything she has to say about her she may say in front of her without fear; she is utterly powerless.

 

_And yet…_

 

There is something deeply unsettling about this leveling of the battleground. She has no great, ancient foundations to rely upon. There is majesty in the tongue of Valyria, of her homeland, of her birthright, and yet Cersei has harnessed it from across the Narrow Sea, learning it from old men ignorant of its roots, its _true_ meanings, and she has been taught to recite it as little more than a party trick to impress nobility. For Daenerys, it is an anchor to her past, her family, her name, where once she had no other but her silver hair and the songs in her head. For Cersei, it is a formality. It is just words.

 

The ability to speak the tongue won her her first army. It brought Grey Worm to her. It saved her from obscurity and made people see her as a real threat for the first time. Now, it drops to the ground between them, discarded as useless mutual ground. 

 

 _She would have been wiser to conceal this knowledge from me_ , she thinks, but Cersei is all pride and less thinking when the shackles close around her throat. She is desperate to claw back some respect, yearning for the final word.

 

“Your accent needs work.” She says, idly, to her prisoner.

 

“I’ve never met a native speaker before. Of course, you were raised on the Common Tongue, so I suppose you don’t really count either.”

 

Cersei’s words are breathy, light, almost gentle, floating across to her captor as if whispered to a sleeping child. Daenerys remembers their meeting at the Dragon Pit, and cannot mark the softness of Cersei’s tone down to malnourishment. She supposes she has always spoken this way, delivering venom on the petal of a flower, her words formed with the refinement and sweetness of a girl taught to please, and yet their meaning is assured and blistering. She is a woman of contrasts, Daenerys supposes; seemingly delicate, yet hiding something immovable, ugly, and ferocious underneath.

 

"Morghūljilā hemtubis, Cersei Lannister.” She says, simply. 

 

The lioness bows her head. Again, not out of humility, but more likely to hide any fear that creeps in through the crevices of her face. When she raises her gaze once more, she is stone.

 

“People have been trying to kill me for decades.”

 

“Then you may rest easy tonight in the knowledge that the wait is finally over.”

 

“It won’t make you happy.”

 

“Well, I won’t know until I try it.”

 

Cersei swallows. “And what will you do with my brother?”

 

Daenerys understands enough about the Lannister family to know which brother she means.

 

“I will do what is best for my reign and my people.”

 

“Shall he die beside me tomorrow, then? That would be justice in the eyes of the Seven.”

 

_Is that what she wants? Would she rather see her brother die with her and her old world than live in my new one?_

 

“No. He awaits judgement. Your fate is far more important than his at the moment.”

 

“You will kill him. I see that now. Mercy does not come easily to queens who have fought for everything they have.”

 

“You presume my plight has made me cold. You are mistaken. I want peace at any cost.”

 

“Somehow that proclamation means less when spoken from the back of a dragon.” 

 

“You question my methods? Did you not destroy an ancient, sacred landmark, annihilating several great Westerosi houses and an entire branch of religion, just to protect your family? Just for peace, albeit a misguided sense of peace?”

 

“I do not judge you, Daenerys Targaryen. It is you who resist a comparison between us.”

 

“I’ve committed no genocide.”

 

“Neither have I. War always has casualties.”

 

“There was no war in King’s Landing.”

 

“There is _always_ a war in King’s Landing. Get used to that idea quickly.”

 

Daenerys straightens her spine. 

 

“You will not get to speak with your brother again. That is all you need to know.”

 

“And what of our child? Is _that_ a necessary casualty, Breaker of Chains, Protector of the Innocent?”

 

She took a city for children once. She killed hundreds to avenge children she never knew. She destroyed traditions, rallied her armies, blinked back the ashes in the air, bestrid the continent, for strangers’ children. They are, she has always believed, the purest form of innocence. The young are projections of the place that raised them, the _people_ that raised them, and for that they can be excused almost anything. She stopped being a child very quickly. Children should be allowed childhoods, unafraid of judgement or of execution. Every child that screams has Rhaego’s voice, every child that looks at her with awe has Rhaego’s face, every child that dies because of her is just the fate of her son, played out before her eyes over and over again. And she never got to meet Rhaego.

 

And yet, she has always known that taking the throne means losing a bit of yourself.

 

“You are not showing. How can I be certain there even is a child?”

 

“Ask my Grand Maester.”

 

“Why would I do that? He was the only person with a brain who still supported you. His testimony is worthless.”

 

“Then perhaps you should wait a few months.”

 

“Every day you spend alive is a risk I am not willing to take. Your baby dies with you, if there is one at all.”

 

 _There’s_ the pain. It flares up for merely a moment in Cersei’s expression, and as soon as Daenerys has won it, she finds she does not want it.

 

“My baby has committed no crime, and you would punish them too?”

 

“I cannot let you carry it to term. You must be punished now, and your whole corrupt reign must die with you. Your child will not grow up to become another enemy I must quell. The only Lannisters I will host in my kingdom are those who I am certain will be loyal to me.”

 

“Then you would be wise to burn both of my brothers. They were not raised to kneel to foreign women.”

 

“They were never allowed the choice. They have been given it, and they have both made it favourably. I believe you are not fond of Tyrion, understandably, I suppose, he talks _a lot_ , but you should know that I could not have taken the Seven Kingdoms without him. And despite Jaime’s...disappointing role in your capture, he led us to your chambers, he fought alongside us in Winterfell, he put himself in great danger to see you were swiftly, but humanely, removed from the throne.”

 

Daenerys’ need for the last word wins out as her impassioned speech pours forth. She is not sure where this appreciation for Ser Jaime has come from, especially since she was debating whether or not to let him live until very recently, but she regrets her words seconds later, as a subtle but clear wash of calm descends on Cersei’s features, and it isn’t the calm of apathy, but of reassurance.

 

“So you won’t kill him.”

 

Daenerys folds her fingers together, rocking back onto her heels. She hears Grey Worm shift behind her. The light slopes languidly through the window in the door. It isn’t daylight, but it makes Daenerys consider how late it is.

 

“This visit was out of courtesy, Cersei Lannister. You have a right to face your conqueror, and I in all honesty wished to see you. We shall meet again, one last time, tomorrow morning. Make peace with your gods before then, if you can.”

 

Daenerys turns to leave. A desperate hand clutches at her skirt. Cersei’s touch is so unexpected, so foreign in concept, that she freezes, looking down at the broken queen. Her eyes are half mad, but what is terrifying is the half that is keen and knowing, and the soft, even voice with which she speaks.

 

“Be careful who you marry, they will bring Hell. Be careful who you trust, they will bring fear. Be careful who you favour, they will bring pain. Be careful who you love, they will kill you in the end.”

 

Daenerys bites back the ‘ _who are you to say this to me’_ and the _‘how dare you presume to know my feelings’_ and the _‘it will not be as it was with you’_ and the _‘I am not so ignorant as to not already know this_ ’. She stares down into the growing chasm of blackness that swallows Cersei like a fly in a goblet of wine.

 

“You will never be safe. You will never be happy.”

 

It is a last attempt as unseating the Queen. Cersei’s kneel looks less pathetic now and more like she’s crouched to pounce.

 

‘ _I know this_.’ Daenerys wants to say. Instead, she says “There are more important things than happiness.”

 

She rips her skirt from Cersei’s somewhat slackened grasp, and signals for Grey Worm to open the door.

 

“Goodnight, Cersei Lannister. I will see you tomorrow.”

 

The heavy door clangs shut before Daenerys can even turn back to see her expression.

 

\- - -

 

Daenerys has never been in the Red Keep before. Not waking, at least. The childish giddiness at it now being hers compels her to stride through its halls, taking in every chamber and courtyard, mentally assigning rooms to her household and attempting not to get lost in its intricate web of corridors. Tyrion Lannister, less than pleased, accompanies her, jogging lightly to keep up with her stride.

 

“Ellaria left for Dorne this morning, so we should brief some of our men in case she reunites with her beloved subjects and decides to start a little revolt against the new queen.”

 

“She is loyal to me.”

 

“She is a Martell! They’re languid one moment and scorching the next! They’ve never been easy to predict. She stabbed her prince, the brother of her lover, and killed a sweet and innocent girl who had been in her charge for years, just to piss off my sister. Loyalty means little when their anger stirs.”

 

“She has no reason to cause trouble.”

 

“She lost all of her daughters on a mission for you.”

 

“That was her responsibility, her risk, and if anything that should make her extremely grateful to me for making Cersei pay for her crimes.”

 

“She’s likely sick of taking orders from King’s Landing. Dorne is vast and productive, and far removed from central Westeros. If the Starks are stirring for independence, whether or not they get it, it might give her... _ideas_ . Ideas that have caused _problems_ with the Martells in the past.”

 

“Fine. Keep an eye on her. Assemble the guard you need to mobilise if we hear any unrest from Dorne.”

 

“It’s a good opportunity for young knights, clamouring for you favour, to prove themselves. We can start rebuilding noble houses who are loyal to the throne, and replacing those that have gone extinct.”

 

“Why did she leave now? Was she well enough?”

 

“A maester named Darrick said it will be a years-long process to get her as strong as she once was, but she’s clear of infection or serious affliction, aside from something complicated-sounding with her heart, which the effects of malnutrition have permanently damaged. She got the all-clear and wanted to set of straight away. Dorne needs a strong ruler, and ideally one we are associated with. I said it would be fine if she left to reclaim her seat, and she sends you formal and personal apologies that she will not be here tomorrow to see Cersei executed.”

 

“Fine.” Says Daenerys, distractedly, as she opens the door at the back of an antechamber revealing a small bathhouse, flooded with light from the high windows, paved in cool grey tiles, filled with lush green plants and with a small sunken pool in the middle. The castle offers up more secrets.

 

“And what do you plan to do with Qyburn?”

 

She shuts the door and retraces her steps, nearly tripping over Tyrion where he stands behind her in her haste to get back to her previous route. 

 

“I have spoken with him. Cersei valued his work, thus treated him kindly. He was cast out of the Citadel and then suffered through a gruesome siege in Harrenhal during the War of the Five Kings. He was looking for a safe, warm and secure place in which to carry out his _experiments_. Cersei won his loyalty genuinely with this, it seems. He is devoted to her, and has provided her with some of her most useful weapons, hence why I’ve made sure they do not come into contact.”

 

“A strange friendship they formed. He was quiet and unobtrusive, and supplied her with reanimated bodyguards, and she was a queen who favoured him; a mutually-beneficial arrangement. From what I can gather, Qyburn admires my sister, perhaps even loves her as a servant would a queen, but he is rational and tenacious, and I do not believe would cast his life away for a lost cause.”

 

She stops on the flight of stairs they are descending, and turns to look _up_ at him, for once.

 

“Are you suggesting, Lord Tyrion, that I _pardon_ him? Offer him terms? His weapons killed my child, his knowledge kept Cersei’s reign of terror absolute, and Gregor Clegane, or whatever he was after Qyburn's _procedure_ , has killed a loved one of almost every member of my council.”

 

“I’m not saying he hasn’t done unspeakable wrongs. Unforgivable, even. You don’t have to _forgive_ him, I’m merely suggesting that you might _use_ him.”

 

Her face fades from incredulity back to its stoic, queenly facade. 

 

“How?”

 

“He is brilliant. He has been terrible, but he is brilliant. A man of _true_ learning and genuine curiosity. His methods are not always in line with what the Citadel considers moral, but if put to the right use, his brain could do so much good that it _almost_ makes up for everything else.”

 

“He is loyal to Cersei. He will die with her.”

 

“If you offer him his life, I believe he will accept. He knows he cannot help Cersei, and although perhaps that upsets him, he is not a highborn fool drunk on his own pride. He is a man of logic and prudence, and will not throw his life away on a ridiculous technicality of ‘honor’. He may agree to work for you, as he agreed to work for the Lannisters after he left the Boltons. Give him his life, and the means to better the world, and he might just do it for you. Think of the diseases to be cured, the riddles of the body to be solved, the weapons he could develop to _protect_ the people, not blow them up.”

 

“And I’m just supposed to trust him?”

 

“Absolutely not, _never_ trust him. As I said he’s changed sides a lot, and that isn’t a very promising record. He could also apparently tolerate my sister for long periods of time; quite a feat, and not one possible for a wholly sane man. Keep him under heavy watch, on a tight leash, but let him live.”

 

She blinks at him. She tilts her chin up a little; a subtle tell that Tyrion can read by now.

 

“I shall consider when I have spoken with him further. People will not be happy. It is a decision I cannot make lightly. For at least a little while longer, hold him in the dungeons.”

 

“Of course, your grace.”

 

“Anything else?”

 

“Yes. We need to assign a council.”

 

“Have we not already?”

 

“I am your Hand. That is all that we have settled.”

 

She carries on walking, striding out into the sun of a levelled garden. Under the pergola of heavily-scented vines, among the fig trees and stone basins filled with flowers, she finds a bench placed over a mosaic. She sits, and indicates that Tyrion should join her. The sun beats down overhead, but the high walls around them shade them from its power. She can hear the dimmed hum of the city beyond the palace, even perhaps the faint splash of waves on the coast. This is home now, she supposes.

 

She lets the emotional vulnerability lull her into a place where she can ask the pressing question without too much shame at her ignorance;

 

“So...who do I need on my small council?”

 

“Well, you’ll need a Lord Commander of your Queensguard.”

 

“Ser Jorah.”

 

“He is getting older, your grace.”

 

“He would have had your job, had the circumstances been different.”

 

“Alright. He’s a good man, he’s experienced, and he we have no reason to doubt his loyalties. Next, I would advise you to retain Lord Varys as your Master of Whispers.”

 

“It would be foolish not to.”

 

“Indeed. Master of Ships?”

 

“I believe Ser Davos has more than earned the role.”

 

“He has changed sides several times, your grace. He is lowborn, an ex-smuggler.”

 

“And yet he has worked his way up to be one of my advisors, despite being lowborn, despite being an ex-smuggler, despite serving under Stannis Baratheon. He is clever, and he is kind. He wants peace, and yet still knows the water. I trust no one else personally or in terms of qualification.”

 

“Fair enough, Ser Davos it is. You will need a Grand Maester, as Qyburn cannot continue to hold the title when he’s a prisoner of the crown.”

 

“Indeed. Do you have any suggestions?”

 

“There are many valid options, I believe. Westeros is not lacking maesters, it is simply a matter of choosing one. Perhaps, in a break from tradition, you should appoint a young maester, someone you know and trust, and someone to whom you owe both an apology and a debt.”

 

“Samwell Tarly.”

 

“Indeed.”

 

She thinks. A gentle breeze stirs the locks of her hair left loose to twist around her shoulders. 

 

“How long did he train at the Citadel for?”

 

“A...a month I believe.”

 

“That isn’t very long. I was taught that it took many years, decades even, to learn everything necessary to call yourself a maester.”

 

“That is usually the case, but Samwell is particularly clever.”

 

“So he finished early? After a month?” She says sarcastically.

 

“Well, no…”

 

“No. He deserted his order, or so I’m told.”

 

“He had Gilly and her son to consider.”

 

“Maesters are supposed to eschew family connections, are they not? As are Night’s Watchmen. He has broken both of these rules and deserted both of these orders. Pillars of Westeros, wouldn’t you say? Abandoning the Night’s Watch is punishable by death.”

 

“You make a good point…” He meets her eyes as he compliments her. “Without him, Ser Jorah would be dead. Hells, all of us might be dead. Without his insight into the White Walkers and what kills them, we wouldn’t have stood a chance.”

 

“But he is still only a boy. He is untrained. I trust him, and I shall reward him, but I shall not make him Grand Maester. He may return to the Citadel on my order, and with my support. He will be able to live with his wife and their children, and his course of study shall be escalated.”

 

“A fair decision. Then who is to be Grand Maester?”

 

“Bring several of the most respected maesters in the kingdom to the Keep. They shall work collaboratively for a time, until I have decided who is to take the mantel.”

 

He nods. “It’s always good to have more maesters than you need, I find, especially during a ‘peaceful’ takeover.”

 

“The others?”

 

“Master of Coin.”

 

“Who has held the title in the past?”

 

“There have been several in the last few years alone. It isn’t a particularly comfortable job, and certainly not an easy one. King Robert’s Master of Coin was Littlefinger.”

 

“I have heard his name. Where is he now?”

 

“The snake has slithered its last, I believe. I’ve heard tell that Sansa Stark executed him. I knew him, it is a shame to lose such a brilliant mind, but his crimes caught up with him in the end, and he underestimated that girl, and for that I cannot pity him. He was a good Master of Coin, but not trustworthy. When burdened with the finance of the Realm, you need whoever you appoint to be unshakable in their loyalty, as well as shrewd and good with money.”

 

“Do you have any suggestions?”

 

“Hmm.” He presses his lips together so that his mouth disappears into his beard. “Lannisters have often held the title. My uncle was Master of Coin, as was I, for a time. Then it was given to Mace Tyrell to keep him happy, although the real power rested with my father. As I recall, he was also Master of Ships.”

 

“The position is important, and as you are already Hand I cannot add more to your load. Is there anyone in our council versed in money to an appropriate level?”

 

“Several could do the job, I believe. My brother is a Lannister, and has spent a lot of his life being taught the value of gold, and the consequences of its absence, but he was always better with weapons than with books. Ser Davos is more aware of trade than anyone else, and could take on both titles, as Mace did. There may be an appropriate candidate among the noble houses of Westeros that we are yet to meet, but until then, we will need an interim.”

 

“Alright, as with Grand Maester, we will seek to fill it as soon as we find someone competent and trustworthy. In the meantime, you and Ser Davos will split the duties between you. I have yet to decide what to do with your brother, but being given his freedom and being given a place on my small council are leagues away from each other. Do not forget, as I have not, that he betrayed me.”

 

“He hindered a mission by a few minutes, your grace.”

 

“The most important mission of my campaign. He almost got Arya Stark killed.”

 

“You asked him to betray the person he loves most in the world! The person he has been beside since birth, the person he has done unspeakable things to protect and keep close. It’s a miracle you swayed him to our cause at all, I imagine you have Cersei to thank for that, but to expect him to gleefully hand her over without any emotional consequence was naive of you.”

 

Daenerys carefully schools her features to hide her irritation, but watches as Tyrion’s eyes flick to the flaring of her nostrils.

 

“Naive? It was with your support, on your _assurance_ of your brother's capability, that I let him go in the first place! That I even let him into _Winterfell_ with his head. And yet this is entirely my fault?”

 

“He was necessary to get to Cersei, and he _got_ to Cersei. He surely cannot be punished with death for a moment of indecision, of trauma, which didn’t ultimately matter in the scheme of things?”

 

“That _luckily_ didn’t matter. His weakness could have cost us Cersei and the two other people in that room.”

 

“Is that what this is about, then? Love of Arya Stark?”

 

“It is a _lot_ more than just that-”

 

“Love of Ser Jorah, then?”

 

She flinches. Tyrion raises his eyebrows. She restrains herself from striking him.

 

“Do not start with me. Losing either of them would have been terrible, but compromising our one chance to take Cersei by surprise would have been much worse. It is for _that_ your brother is punished.”

 

Her voice is low and icy, and he concedes defeat. She considers Tyrion’s love is the only thing about him that is irrational. He can predict how people will act before they even know what they are going to do, but affection is a strategic blind spot. He didn’t deliberately fall for Cersei’s lie of sending forces North. He didn’t omit an awareness of Jaime’s tortured loyalties for future gain. It seems the only people he has trouble predicting are those closest to him. She swears to herself that this is something she will not forget.

 

 “He shall see your sister die tomorrow.” Both a blessing and a curse, she is aware. It will kill him, she knows, but if he understands her meaning, it will save him as well.

 

Tyrion’s brilliant eyes take on a familiar faraway look. He is lost in his past.

 

“You mustn’t use Drogon.”

 

“Why not? She is my prisoner, and prisoners of the Mother of Dragons die by Dragonfire.”

 

“It is too flamboyant, too foreign, too much of a spectacle. You must show them justice in a language they understand.”

 

“The executioner?”

 

“Jon Snow. Northmen are respected for their honour, _generally_ speaking, and he is popular among your forces. It would be fitting.”

 

“Not Ser Jaime? Not you?”

 

“Our family have forfeited all right to swing any sword of justice.”

 

 _He could not do it. Even now, he could not do it_ , she thinks. _He will not swing the sword, but he will assign the executioner. He will draft the death warrant. That is perhaps true power._

 

A dragonfly floats on the warm breeze before their faces. It lands, twitching, on a fleshy leaf to Daenerys’ left. She watches its wings catch and harness the dying sunlight.

 

“The evening draws on. I must visit Ser Jorah. I shall see you tomorrow at dawn for any final arrangements.” Her knight, after a month, is fully healed. It is miraculous that he lived at all, what with the severing of so many blood vessels, not to mention how quickly and completely he recovered. This, though she is infinitely grateful she needn't worry about him as well as everything else, fills her with more curious worry, and more unanswerable questions.

 

Tyrion hops off the bench and bows to her. 

 

“Of course, my queen.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Gaoman pāsagon bisy daor' = 'I do not trust this one'
> 
> "Ziry mijegon kustikāne. Ziry ōdrikagon nyke daor.” = 'She lacks strength. She cannot harm me'
> 
> “Ēza prūmia daor.” = 'She has no hear.t'
> 
> “Nyke gīmigon. Bisa kēlio angogon doar.” = 'I know. This lion cannot bite.'
> 
> “Iā kēlio kostagon va moriot angogon.” = 'A lion can always bite.'
> 
> "Morghūljilā hemtubis, Cersei Lannister.” = 'You will die tomorrow, Cersei Lannister.'


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, so I'm not gonna lie, I've had this chapter written for ages, and I am really pleased with it, so I hope you guys enjoy it too. As I said, from here on in, things will be picking up now all the intricate political stuff is almost dealt with, so people can get to feeeeeeelings instead. I TOLD YOU THIS WAS SLOW BURN!
> 
> Shortish, but I am catching up to myself alarmingly fast, so as I do, I'll have to write chapters within a week to keep on schedule, and I have a real hectic professional life right now, so you're all gonna have to bear with me.
> 
> xxx

They are just standing and watching...the most important thing that has happened in their small lives, and they say nothing…

 

_ It is distant to them. It is a high born’s game. It means nothing, as long as food stays close and war stays far. _

 

“Your Queen would use you as a shield. She would risk your lives so that she could protect herself. She would watch all of you burn, if it ensured her survival. She is barely fit to be a person, let alone a queen. She is not fit to walk among you, let alone stand above you.”

 

A murmur of agreement rises, but it may be from her own forces, she thinks. She feels the eyes of centuries passed upon her as they drag Cersei out onto the steps, and fling her at Daenerys’ feet.

 

“She is brought before you, defeated. You stand before her, liberated. I am not here to show you softness, I am here to show you strength. I will be merciful and kind to those who deserve it,” she looks from the crowd to Cersei, “and righteous and vigilant to those who do not.”

 

Cersei raises her head. Beaten down, lower than she has ever been, filthy and bedraggled, she tilts her head as if Daenerys was dirt below her feet.

 

_ She has been a queen since birth, It runs through her veins; disdain, intelligence, a sense of the world’s injustice… _

 

She exploited it. Daenerys will never use the uneven scale to her own advantage. She will finally allow her people to be free…

 

_ But you’ve used it yourself. You have flaunted your name, demanded special treatment, carried yourself with pride based on a family name that you believe makes you better, more worthy, than those below. Aren’t you the same? Aren’t you a neglected heir, a broken woman, a product of war that the world spat out and sold to the highest bidder, just as Cersei Lannister is? _

 

Lost in accusatory eyes of wildfire, she breaks away and turns to her people.

 

“You shall have a say. You shall have a voice, representatives, a chance to change the way you are governed. You shall have a sword where previously you had only a shield. You will be protected. If you follow me, those who have wronged you will die screaming.”

 

People are still people, wherever she speaks the words, and they sound as good to Western ears as they do to Eastern.

 

She turns back to the fallen queen. The disdain has not left her eyes. Daenerys feels hatred like she hasn’t felt in years, the strings holding her mind together screaming, seconds from snapping.

 

“Cersei of House Lannister, you assumed the throne under false pretences and sought to hold it in the place of the true heir. You have committed war crimes against your own bannermen, and conspired to overthrow the true heir to Westeros. I offered you peace, and you refused. I now sentence you to die.”

 

When Cersei smiles, it is a terrifying grimace, all white teeth and menace, and Daenerys feels Drogon stir behind her eyes, from a far away cave, like the echo of his song. She promised not to execute her using dragonfire, but Drogon is part of her, and sympathises so strongly she isn’t sure her words could hold him back from carrying out her true impulses were he nearby, especially as the fallen queen smirks and smirks, like Daenerys is nothing and knows nothing.

 

“Any final words before we enact justice?”

 

The people are quiet, barely a murmur in the crowd as the end of a dynasty approaches on the next breath. Cersei raises her head.

 

She speaks quietly, under her wearing breath, only to Daenerys.

 

“From one butcher to another, you are a fool if you think that chair will bring you happiness. It is made of blades, and blades shed blood of lion and dragon alike. Nothing you can do to me will have any meaning, and nothing you can say to me will scare me. Look upon your work, little girl. I doubt it will last the winter.”

 

Cersei, apparently above literally spitting, infuses the distaste of the gesture into her words instead. She looks half queen, half beast, her beauty cracking under the weight of her madness, her noble posture bowed by the demon trying to claw its way out of her body and escape at last.

 

“You are wrong. Your reign of terror is over. If I cannot change the past, then I will reshape the future.”

 

She sees Ser Jaime over Cerise's shoulder. She had, after much deliberation, allowed him to be present, as both a courtesy and a warning. His expression is a thunderous mixture of agony and hatred;  at himself, at his sister, at Daenerys, it is difficult to tell. The guards holding him back look to her, and her gaze moves to Tyrion, his mouth pressed shut, his eyes grave. See Jorah stands beside her, surveying the crowd through sharp eyes. Arya, bruised and bloody, having insisted upon being present but conceded to remain seated in a chair, is firm nonetheless, and looks to Jon as Daenerys does now. She nods, and he moves forward, drawing his sword.

 

In the intake of breath from the crowd, she hears another sound. Distant bells, ringing in distant towers. The sound of steel  _ ringing _ . A scream on the wind, a warning in the space between words and actions.

 

_ “It is not what you will give, but what you will take, that will define you.” _

 

It is as if time slows to a crawl. Jon approaches, but not quickly enough. The green of Cersei’s eyes catches and explodes, her last vestiges of fury and power erupting out onto her face. Her teeth bared, she lets out an inhuman noise of rage, and lunges towards Daenerys. She feels her intention like a rush of wind. She sees a flash of silver.

 

Jorah has seen it too. He presses himself in front of Daenrys quicker than she has ever seen him move. She sees Cersei’s knife before all of her guards see it, before anyone can react to what is happening. She sees green eyes focus on the bottom of his breastplate, where the steel ends to allow movement, where chainmail would cover if he was in full plate.

 

Cersei knows armour. She’s been putting it on her children and taking it off her brother for years.

 

She knows that there is a narrow, but direct, route to his gut.

 

Daenerys knows he will take the blade for her without a flicker of hesitation.

 

There is no humanity in Cersei’s eyes; just the hollow madness of a woman with nothing left to lose, and one last chance to cause more damage.

 

_ It’s not what you give, but what you take _ .

 

And she sees it then, in the approaching blade Cersei has slipped from the hem of her corset, the blade no one thought to search her for, because they forget that lionesses bite and queens don’t succeed at clinging to the throne without fighting tooth and nail. She sees her future, red and red and red. The red of flames, of rage, of comets, of her sigil, Lannister red, red of Melisandre of Asshai who haunts her dreams.

 

The red of the jewel that brought Jorah Mormont back to her from the black clutches of death.

 

The red of blood. Fire and blood. Blood of my blood.

 

Ser Jorah’s blood?

 

_ Blood of my blood. _

 

She sees. She thinks. A flash of light, and then she finally understands.

 

The crowd draws in a collective breath. These people see her as untouchable, foreign, untrustworthy. The daughter of a madman that killed their families and almost left their city in ruins. Why should they trust her, follow her, kneel to her, when she has done nothing to show what she would do for them?

 

A city of foreigners, a country of strangers, and she would do anything for them. She  _ has  _ done everything for them. They are her people. They will see that.

 

She will not stand by while someone takes her blows for her. Especially not someone like Ser Jorah, who has so little to gain and so much to give.

 

It takes less than a second to grab Jorah’s arm. He doesn’t have time to process what she is doing, doesn’t have time to stop her, before she uses all of her strength to pull him behind her, out of the way of Cersei’s dagger, which, though knocked off course by the jolt of movement, still slips cleanly and easily into her own stomach. It scrapes across the bone of the bottom of her ribcage with more burning pain than she knew was possible.

 

If the onlookers react she doesn’t hear it. Her heart thuds in her ears and she feels the dagger bury into her body. It slides past flesh and muscle, her blood is warm and wet where it pools in between her skin and her clothes. Purple and green meet. Something leaves Cersei and finds Daenerys. Her vision blurs, only green and fire and pain, and she finally feels what it must be like to be one of her father’s victims, to be consumed and destroyed by wildfire. 

 

Time regains its footing. Guards stunned into immobility allow Jaime Lannister to slip out of their grasp. He stumbles forward, reaching out and taking hold of his sister before anyone else can. She feels Ser Jorah’s arms around her. Or, more realistically, she feels arms and senses they are his. She is being pulled away from Cersei’s terrible eyes. She is hurt. She is dying. 

 

_ It is not what you will give, but what you will take _ …

 

She is pulled backwards further, pulled closer to Ser Jorah. The knife is wrenched from her stomach and she feels the rush of her own blood leaving her body through the open wound. She falls, the pain becoming too much to bear. She can barely draw breath, can barely focus on anything around her. All voices sound muted and distant to her ears. She senses chaos. She feels a pain even greater than the stab wound; the pain of her ancestors, impaled on a cold metal throne, broken and desperate minds branded as mad. It tugs at her soul, willing it from her body with the promise of peace.

 

_ We have fought for so long, and we have lost. Rest now, child. The end is here. _

 

The voices swirl and swarm. She sees Cersei dragged away. She sees several people draw their blades, Jon and Arya among them, but Jon stops despite being the nearest. He freezes. It is Jaime Lannister. He is on his knees, holding his sister from behind. No, not holding, he is  _ restraining _ her. He is weeping, his tears wetting his twin’s hair. His hand is bloody; he has taken up her dagger.

 

_ That is my blood upon his hand, _ Daenerys thinks, from somewhere far away.

 

She sees him grasp the hilt, sees him look into his sister’s eyes, for a moment he considers something, but his streaming eyes turn to determined steel, and he draws the blade sharply across her throat.

 

Cersei chokes, her own blood bubbling up past her lips, pouring from the deep slice in her neck. Her head falls back. She looks to her brother as death takes her, but Daenerys can barely see anymore.

 

She barely notices the twins’ tears, how Jaime leans down to kiss her as she dies, muttering curses or apologies, or maybe even comforts. She barely notices the guards swarming, the people shouting, the lion queen going limp in her brother’s arms on the steps of her palace.

 

She only notices the world inverted. She is suddenly staring at the sky; the beautiful, blue sky. Then blue eyes, just as vast and hopeful, set in the face of her dearest friend, in whose place she has taken a knife to the gut. Ser Jorah cradles her close. He is crying too, she thinks. She feels pain on her belly as he tries to staunch her bleeding with his hand. He looks disbelieving, frustrated, overwhelmed, heartbroken. Over the deafening sound of her own heart beating, she hears that he is begging for something, his bloody hand now on her cheek, his strong arm supporting her, as it always has.

 

She hears a voice, standing out among the others. A familiar voice.

 

“Make it count, Stormborn. Show them fire and blood. Complete the circle to break it.”

 

Somehow she summons the strength to stand. Ser Jorah tries to hold her still, but a single hand to his shoulder relaxes his grasp. In utter shock, he allows her to rise, trembling and bleeding, and turn to the sea of stunned common faces.

 

There, amongst the people of King’s Landing, and their browns and greys, she sees red.

 

Melisandre of Asshai nods. Her smile is not taunting. It is a greeting between respected equals.

 

Daenerys faces her people, who stare back in hushed awe. The red of her blood, the same colour as theirs, stains her white body and silver hair, seeping through Targaryen garments and Stark furs. She feels as she did when her dragons hatched; exposed, vulnerable, clueless, battered, but more powerful than any of them could even fathom, all of it thudding against the inside of her head, feeling like she might explode and collapse in on herself all at once. And, as then, her first thought is to  _ protect _ .

 

Protect Ser Jorah. Protect her dragons. Protect her  _ khalasar _ and her Unsullied, those who followed her because she took from her enemies and gave to her allies. Protect House Stark, and the Lannisters loyal to her, and the Greyjoys who were there from the start. Protect the memory of those who have fallen before her.

 

Protect her people.

 

_ You must be their strength _ .

 

She musters what little breath remains and shouts, the sound scudding across the crowd, reaching every ear, soothing every heart, feeding every fire.

 

“You are free!”

 

Then, blackness.

  
  
  
  



	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right I KNOW this one is short, so to apologise, I will upload the next one at some point this week, probably Friday. I promise. I didn't want to drag it out though, and the next one is too long to add this to it.
> 
> See you later, hope you like it xxx

She is bleeding heavily, but she cannot tell where from. There is someone in front of her, talking to her, but their voice sounds far away and she seems to be looking at their figure through a fine layer of mist. She is distracted by the blood, coursing down her arms and spattering against the floor, like two sleeves of glossy wine, encasing her skin, with no discernable source. She isn’t sure if she is in pain or not.

 

She remembers little, only pain so acute she thought she would die of it, and then nothing. And then...here.

 

The figure is shouting at her now. She apologises, but they don’t seem to have heard her. There are others, she thinks, surrounding her, blurred and distant, looking on with worrying omniscience. They stand in a circle, their heads bowed under what may be cloaks, or what may be skin. She feels as if she is on trial, but she doesn't know if she is pleading innocent or guilty.

 

There is a throbbing in her head, behind her eyes, asserting itself against her temples from the inside, and she feels suddenly weightless, as if released from her body. If there was pain before, there certainly isn't now. Her sense of self slips through her fingers in a way that it almost peaceful.

 

The figures start to chant, in unison, in a thousand voices filled with ominous urgency. The edges of her vision swim. The mist turns grey, then black, and the figure before her raises their head so she can see the terrible, contorted face beneath. It is nothing, no one, she has ever seen. She is suddenly afraid. The figure drops their jaw in a scream, and the hollow of their mouth grows and grows until the rest of their face collapses into it, until they are all mouth, all screaming, their very person being swallowed by the abyss, and their body disappears. Her sight is leaving her, blackness taking over, and the last thing she is aware of is a terrifying rush of movement before...nothing.

 

When she can see again, it is a parched blue sky above her. The light is so bright her eyes sting and her forehead creases. It is quiet. She feels sand underneath her palms. There is no blood anymore, she feels dry, but the pain is back, and so sudden and so blinding that she can’t even move enough to scream. 

 

It is like this for hours. Pain, from nowhere, from everywhere, with no centre and no end in sight, ravages her whole being. She lies, paralysed, on the sandy ground, eyes shut against the light, willing it all to stop. She breathes in the hot air and finds no relief. She cannot move for the agony.

 

There is singing in her head now, as there sometimes is. Old Targaryen hymns that bring her comfort or fuel her anger, but now she wants it to stop. The notes are disjointed, the tone is dissonant, the voices are scratched and fearful, wailing too close to her soul, and she wants it to stop, she wants  _ everything to stop _ -

 

She is being carried. Arms slide under her neck and the back of her knees. She is lifted from the ground like she weighs nothing. She cannot get an impression of the person doing so; they seem to not breathe, not to touch her where it isn’t necessary. For the first time she finds the strength to scream.

 

When she forces her eyes open she sees endless waste, a lifeless blue sky, and nothing else, save a domed tent appearing before her. It stands, solitary and dusty, promising shade and safety, and she is being carried towards it. A deep, dark, dormant dread takes hold, and suddenly she doesn’t want to be taken to it.

 

_ I have done this before.  _

 

She tries to speak her fear, but her words do not come. She tries to struggle free but she is held firm. The pain begins to ebb, like her body is drawing her into the tent, promising her respite. It is the only shelter in the world, the only shade, the only chance at rest and her body pulls as her mind pushes. She wants it to end, yes, but she knows she cannot allow herself to be carried inside. She tries to explain, but she is gripped tighter to a plate-covered chest. She turns her head to look at the person carrying her. She feels no surprise when she sees it is Ser Jorah. He looks exhausted and heartbroken, and doesn’t appear to hear her pleas, or at least doesn’t heed them.

 

She can’t voice his name. His brow is furrowed, his eyes swimming with tears, but he doesn’t look at her, only ahead at the gaping mouth of the tent, growing ever larger and hungrier the closer they get. The pain fades and fades, but the anxiety remains, like a tide retreating and leaving debris along the shoreline. She cannot struggle anymore against his strength, and lets acceptance wash over her as he carries her to the threshold. The singing is back, but now it is the wailing of Mirri Maz Duur, the restlessness of the dead, whipping the tent’s flap up in a sourceless wind.

 

She feels something in her lower stomach, pulling like a fish caught on a line, tugging up the inside of her, scraping through the labyrinth of her innards, filling her lungs as it passes, forcing its way up her throat, like she’ll be sick, like her body is turning inside out. 

 

As they pass into the tent, the pressure wrenches itself from her mouth. At first she thinks it is blood, but it hovers before her in the air for a moment like smoke. The pain has left her body with it. It creeps like ink in water upwards, drifting towards the sky. As she follows it with her gaze, she sees another, twisting upwards from Ser Jorah, although he seems not to have noticed. There is a single second where the two meet, where they tangle like the flames of two candles, becoming one, then vanishing as the sky disappears. The darkness of the tent hits her like a boulder, and the singing becomes a sudden scream.

 

And then, once again, nothing.

  
  
  



	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised you, so here's an early update!

The pain pulls her from her rest, like the agony can no longer be ignored. Her leaden eyelids refuse to lift, so she lets awareness seep into her limbs, like terrible treacle.

 

All seems to be working. She is lying horizontal, on something soft. Her head is raised. There is a tight pressure around her torso; bandages? A corset? And then she meets a wall of pain once more.

 

Her nerves fold in around the wound in her abdomen. Every scrap of awareness suddenly centres in on the hole the knife has left.

 

_ I’m hurt. I’ve been stabbed _ . The simple concept takes a moment to settle in her mind.

 

Wincing, she forces her eyes open. The ceiling is vaulted, sandstone, and unfamiliar. The room is small, with sunlight bleeding in from the tall, open windows. She has the sense of being up high.

 

An intake of breath draws her attention to the other occupant of the room; a maester she doesn’t recognise.

 

“Your grace-” he says, starting forward.

 

She tries to sit up, and would have failed even if he hadn’t stopped her.

 

“Please, do not move. I have had to sew your wound closed, and it mustn’t be disturbed.”

 

_ She has been sewed shut again, like a torn gown. _

 

The situation feels incredibly disorientating, as if she’s slipped into someone else’s body. Perhaps she is delirious. Perhaps she is dead and dreaming.

 

“Wh-” she tries, but the door opens, and someone enters.

 

The sight of Missandei, preoccupied with the bowl of steaming water she is carrying, is so welcome that Daenerys draws in a shuddering breath. That catches the girl’s attention, and she looks up. The bowl shatters as she drops it.

 

She is over in a heartbeat, tears spilling down her cheeks. Her warm, golden eyes are hollowed by dark shadows; she looks as if she hasn’t slept in years.

 

“Your grace…” she chokes out. Daenerys doesn’t think she has been so happy to see someone in her life.

 

“Daenerys…” Missandei sighs, taking her hand, her forehead dropping to the bed as she kneels beside it. Daenerys has allowed her to use her given name in private, and the word brings more warmth to drive away her pain.

 

“Do not jostle her.” Cautions the maester, as Missandei presses a kiss to the back of her hand.

 

“Please-” she manages. “W-what happened…?”

 

“You...Cersei...she  _ stabbed  _ you. It all happened so quickly…” It is strange to see Missandei so emotional. It has taken years to coax her out of the shell the Astapori masters forced her into from birth, and yet here she is, crying for her leader out of relief, not fear.

 

“She is dead. Ser Jaime killed her immediately. If he hadn’t, I think the crowd might have. You...you collapsed, and Ser Jorah carried you inside. There are maesters in the city who rushed to the Keep. You have been in their care for six days.”

 

_ Six days?! _

 

“You are doing well, your grace.” Says the maester. “My name is Maester Darrik. I have watched over you. You seem to be valiantly battling infection. You are much better than you were three days ago. We are hopeful.”

 

“What of the armies? The kingdom?”

 

Missande smiles. “It...was not clean. We took the city with few problems, but the Lannister bannermen were not happy. We have executed or imprisoned those who would not swear fealty, depending on how valuable they are. The Golden Company left once Cersei died. The city is in upheaval, the whole country is confused, but it was…” she smiles again, wistfully, thinking perhaps on all the horrors she’s witnessed in the past. “...A remarkably bloodless takeover.”

 

The sigh Daenerys releases seems to relieve her pain further.

 

Missandei stands and moves to a table in the corner of the room. Daenerys almost calls for her to return before she sees she is, and she is carrying something.

 

She kneels, properly, formally. She is holding a small golden circlet; the diadem Cersei was wearing when they captured her. She places it before Daenerys and bows her head.

 

“The Seven Kingdoms are yours, my queen.”

 

And there is finally calm. For the first time in her living memory, there is complete silence in her head. Peace, relief, pure happiness, mild terror, and blissful completion like she has never felt before, like a lungful of air after being submerged in a violent sea for ten years. She is home. She has fulfilled her destiny. For now.

 

_ More time to ruminate on that later _ , she thinks, as a smile tugs at her dry lips, even as her body complains.

 

_ Where is Jon? _ She thinks, but when she puts voice to the question, she says “Where is Ser Jorah?”

 

“He is outside, your grace.” She glances towards the door. “And has been since he brought you here. I’m not sure when he last slept.”

 

“Bring him in at once.” She says, all in one breath, exhausted relief at the prospect of seeing him stealing the last of her dwindling energy.

 

“That is not wise, your grace.” Interrupts the maester. “We have only let your maesters and your handmaiden in this room. It is better not to stir you with unnecessary company.”

 

“No one has seen me? Only you? And Missandei?”

 

“And Jon Snow.” Says Missandei, glancing at the maester.

 

“Ah yes, and Jon Snow. He insisted, and, considering his standing and his apparent…” the maester pauses, and looks at Daenerys in a manner which she chooses to interpret as Jon having provided him with the information “... _ emotional connection _ with you, we thought it appropriate to let him visit.”

 

“He was here last night. The sight of you soothes his mind.” Says Missandei. The thought makes Daenerys smile wistfully.

 

“I would see Ser Jorah.”

 

“As I said, it isn’t advised, your grace.” The maester says. He goes to remove her bandages and she stops his hand. Remarkably, he meets her gaze evenly and raises an eyebrow, and she is compelled to allow him to continue. She should let him heal her. It wouldn’t do to die now the kingdom is finally hers.

 

“I don’t care what is or isn’t advised. Ser Jorah is as close to me as Missandei is.” She halts her tongue at that. She knows it would likely work to her advantage to let her relationship with Jon leak into public knowledge, and Ser Jorah cannot be seen to be in any way involved.

 

The maester’s mouth compresses into a thin line of disapproval. He pulls the bandage up from her waist to inspect the wound. What he sees clearly settles his mind; he reaches for a salve and applies it with a careful, respectful touch, while Missandei observes with pinpoint focus. Daenerys has been surrounded by a small protective circle for so long that allowing a stranger so close does not come particularly naturally.

 

“Missandei, bring Ser Jorah in.” She says. She cannot wait any longer to see him, she decides, even if she is too weak to rise, and barely dressed. 

 

Misasndei rises without hesitation and heads for the door.

 

The maester speaks. “ _ Your grace _ -”

 

“Now.” She says. Her voice has regained its strength somewhat. The maester sighs and Missandei slips out of the room, sending him a last careful look before she does.

 

When he enters, she meets his gaze immediately. His eyes are wide and wet, his expression of joy chasing away the obvious exhaustion. Then he sees the maester, then he sees the dressings pulled up to her breast, her angry wound, the intimacy of the sickroom, and schools himself, averting his eyes and pressing his mouth shut.

 

“Ser Jorah…” She reaches for him without thinking. The maester, shafted and uncomfortable, moves away to clean his hands, and Ser Jorah releases himself from his invisible restraints, surging forward and occupying the space the maester left by her side.

 

“ _ Khaleesi _ …”

 

He takes her hand and lets out a heavy sigh.

 

“How are you feeling?”

 

His voice is gentle, tentative, and she remembers when he used to speak to her in short, gruff fragments; out of politeness or awkwardness or discontent, she could never tell. Now his words are soft round the edges, cushioned by tender concern, spoken from the heart rather than the head.

 

“Wretched.” She says. She finds herself smiling as she lifts the diadem to inspect it more closely. Its simple gold twists catch the light, as if it were still molten.

 

Ser Jorah looks at it too.

 

“It is won, your grace. It is finally yours…”

 

“Yes…” The thought is yet to fully sink in. She wraps her fingers around it and settles it on the bedside table, still within reach should she need a reminder.

 

“I believe once again I have your swiftness to thank for my life. I remember little, but I was told you carried me here.”

 

Something passes over his face that chases away much of the elation. He fights it down valiantly, but she is surprised to identify it as... _ anger _ ?

 

“You nearly died in my arms.”

 

“Yes. As you once did in mine.”

 

“You…” Ever an articulate man, he now struggles for words. “...you  _ needn’t _ have,  _ khaleesi _ . You  _ shouldn’t _ have.”

 

“I knew what I had to do.”

 

His knuckles are white against her bedclothes, his jaw set in a grim angle. 

 

“What you  _ had _ to do was rule. What you had to do was stay safe. It is my job to protect you, not the other way around.”

 

His expression is so controlled it almost makes her laugh. He is  _ scolding _ her. Her bear is displeased with her behaviour, and is clearly fighting every impulse to explain to her how she has disappointed him.

 

“I had to, my knight.” She says. She infuses her words with warmth; the tone she only allows her closest to hear. “It was shown to me…” She drops her voice. The maester is slicing fresh bandages, far enough across the room that she doesn’t fear him eavesdropping.

 

“ _ She _ showed me how to do both. How to protect those I care for and win over those who don’t care for me yet.”

 

He says nothing. His shoulders are tense. He shifts out of the way when the maester returns, and averts his eyes once more as he presses a heavily-perfumed cloth against the wound. The maester barely acknowledges him with a throwaway glance. The concoction stings and she bites back a hiss of pain as much as she can. Her wound disgusts Ser Jorah, but she is not naive enough to think that is because of how it looks.

 

She feels a little stronger when her bandages cover her once more; a little more queenly. 

 

“You must try to understand. I had to.”

 

He doesn’t understand. He glares at the place where the wound is on her stomach like he doesn’t  _ want _ to understand.

 

“What are they saying about me?”

 

He sighs.

 

“The streets hum with your name. They say you are the princess that was promised. They say you are a dragon yourself, clothed in a human disguise, and you will eat the city when they come to trust you. They say Cersei killed you, but the gods brought you back. They say you are your brother, one or other of them, and that Targaryens can switch sex at will. They say that you brought a foreign horde to butcher them. They say you speak in tongues, that you can split yourself into endless copies, that your dragons are fire illusions made through witchcraft, that you seduced both brothers of the Lannister queen  _ and _ the Lord of the North, that you take Westeros for the Lord of Light. They...they say that you are braver than any Lannister, and you have more grace than any Baratheon. They say…”

 

His anger wilts. His eyes glaze over.

 

“They say…?”

 

“They say you were not afraid of Cersei. They say you don’t burn your enemies, they join your side willingly. They say...you took a blade for them.”

 

_ For them. For me. For you. _

 

She supposes that’s what being queen is; deciding who is worth saving and who is worth sacrificing. It is pushing yourself onto a blade because it is your right to decide it will do less damage in you than in the hand of your enemy.

 

She mustn’t die for any love, other than the love of her people. That doesn’t mean she won’t feel the very human impulse to do so anyway.

 

He looks at her stomach again, the pull clearly winning against his pride. She wonders, as she sometimes does when he retreats into his own head, what he is thinking. His emotions are more difficult to read than she would like.

 

“I must nurture their hope. People are naturally optimistic, they’ll look for good in their new queen. They will hope for it.”

 

“The people of King’s Landing have grown cold in the face of hope. Any optimism they once had has long since gone stale. They just want to know they won’t be murdered in their beds.”

 

“They won’t be.”

 

“They are listening,  _ khaleesi _ , and perhaps that will do for hope. They are fearful of the dragons, however.”

 

“My children won’t hurt them.”

 

“Of course not, not without your command. How do they know you won’t give it?”

 

“Because I myself took a knife to take the city peacefully. I faced death so they wouldn’t have to.”

 

“Yes, you took a blade you didn’t have to.” His voice drops to a growl. She sees him move his hand from her bed to his knee, sees him clench it into a fist.

 

“They need little reason to assume you’re like your father. The memories are still fresh for some, and the tales fresh for the rest.”

 

The heat leaps into her cheeks, and bright anger descends into her vision, hot like newly-forged steel. She doesn’t want to hear what he says next.

 

“Taking a knife without a hint of fear, when you didn’t need to, could be seen as madness.”

 

Her vision swims red, the tide rushing against the inside of her head once more. The waves are red too, like blood, cascading over the walls of King’s Landing, filling the streets. The horrifying vision soothes her, for a moment, before she bites it down as usual, blinking back the rage, fighting the urge to scream.

 

Perhaps he is angry with her still, but won’t see it anymore, because he once again leaps to the aid of her emotions, forsaking his own in the process. He extends a hand; a parlay, which she takes a little too quickly. The grips helps. It annoys her that it helps.

 

“They will see they are wrong,  _ khaleesi _ . You will show them temperance, mercy, justice and wisdom. You will carve a new monument for your house, one that is good. However, it is perhaps best if you keep Drogon and Rhaegal away from the city for a while. They feel like your weapons, primed on any citizen that may disobey.”

 

“They’d have me banish my children.”

 

He looks grim, but doesn’t mince words. “Aye. For a time. Until things have settled down, at least.”

 

She nods, but her mind is elsewhere. She is grateful to be alive, she realises. When she’d felt the blade pierce her, she had not expected to survive.

 

_ What a terrifying, reassuring thought; to be fully prepared to die. _

 

Maybe she is going mad.

 

They speak of the people like they know. The will of this nameless, shapeless, faceless mass of lives can be manipulated into a truth to be convenient for whoever is their spokesperson at the time. Anyone who speaks of ‘the will of the people’ may claim what they like of them; there has never been a solid way of checking.

 

“I meant what I said.”

 

“ _ Khaleesi _ ?”

 

“I will give them a voice. I will give the people more say in how they are governed.”

 

He looks unconvinced. He is still holding her hand, loosely, as if he’s forgotten. For a moment, she’d forgotten too. 

 

“If you entertain their opinions they’ll demand more and more. Men who’ve never had a taste of power are unlikely to ever have their fill.”

 

“Surely they’d rather have some than none?”

 

“Perhaps, but it will spin out of your control. You will be good, just, caring, but your rule must be absolute. We cannot change the system that is all they have ever known. It will end in chaos.”

 

“I came here to destroy the wheel that would put one man on top of another over and over again. Cersei ruled with an iron fist, an unblinking eye and a cold heart, and they cheered when she died in front of them. Change is inevitable, but I will make sure it is change for the better. It starts with me.”

 

“But-”

 

“I will hear no more of it now, Jorah. If we’re to return to the days of arguing, let it stay in the council room.”

 

He falls quiet then. She scrutinises him for a moment.

 

“How is your wound?”

 

“...almost healed, your grace.”

 

“Within a week?” She says, under her breath.

 

“...Aye.”

 

Without her eyes leaving his, she raises her voice.

 

“Thank you, Maester Darrik, I feel much better. Will you allow me a moment with Ser Jorah? An unnecessary precaution, I’m sure.” She says, as kindly as she can.

 

The maester looks about to argue. Perhaps he remembers that she is the Queen, perhaps he is satisfied that she will not die in the next hour, perhaps he has run out of things to do, perhaps he has seen the Valyrian steel Jorah carries, either way, he bows, and leaves them.

 

Now they are alone, Ser Jorah’s shoulders drop, as if he were upholding a pretence. He also notices that he is still holding her hand, and releases it with a final stroke of his thumb. She wonders if he wants to touch her, as she wanted to touch him when he was in her place, to assure himself that she lives still.

 

He won’t. She told him once, in Meereen, the first time he left her, never to presume to touch her again. She realises now, with a pang of sadness, that he took the command literally, and upheld it faithfully. He hasn’t actively touched her since, not without her initiating it, not without it being to save her life.

 

She doesn’t regret banishing him. It was an appropriate punishment, the just thing to do, the wise thing to do, but she sees that as it is a part of her story and nothing more, now that she has forgiven and forgotten, for him it is a scar on their relationship that will never vanish. It has altered them irreversibly. It is a thorn they cannot pluck out, and so will have to heal around.

 

So she battles the pain in her abdomen and reaches for him, settling against his chest, slipping easily into his arms. She doesn’t want to argue with him now, even though that is part of his job. He holds her close and fails to conceal a sigh, and she can feel the tension in his muscles as he makes sure to be gentle with her, despite how tightly he wants to keep her close.

 

“I am sorry I worried you.”

 

“Our luck will run out one day.” He says, but the affection in his voice outweighs the warning.

 

She pulls away, turning her face from him for a moment to hide her wince of pain. He clears his throat.

 

“Show me your wound, ser.” She says.

 

He knows better than to argue. “...As you wish,  _ khaleesi _ .”

 

Uncomfortable once more, he stands nonetheless. She watches, strangely fascinated by the situation, as he takes off his armour and slips out of his shirt. 

 

It has healed remarkably well. The ugly gash under his arm has faded to an uneven line, raised and jagged, but no longer life-threatening. She is reassured, and yet more confused than ever.

 

“The magic must be strong. That should have killed me.” He says, almost conversationally, as if the alternative were nothing.

 

“I saw you take ten times the blows on the battlefield of Winterfell and not fall. And that was before the Red Woman.”

 

She traces the scar with her gaze. It looks years old, not days. Her heart sings, quietly, as if afraid to hope.

 

_ Perhaps he cannot be killed. Perhaps the true gift was him, forever, never to fear blade nor flame again, never to give his life for mine again, never to leave me alone in this world again… _

 

“There is much we do not understand...I suppose now we just have to be grateful.” She says, as he pulls his shirt back on.

 

“We cannot waste a moment, though.” She says with a sigh. “Bring Jon Snow to me. It is urgent.”

 

“What do you have in mind,  _ khaleesi _ ?”

 

She should share her political moves with her close advisors, she knows, but somehow she cannot quite bring to have this conversation with Ser Jorah yet.

 

“I’ll explain later, I promise. Please make sure everyone is settled into their chambers. The Northmen need only stay as long as we need them to keep the peace. Once things have calmed down they may return home. We will have peace, at last.”

 

“Peace,  _ khaleesi _ ? Perhaps not yet. What  _ is _ to be done about the North?”

 

“Tomorrow morning, it shall be decided. I promise. Rest, rally my council, keep Cersei’s body in the dungeons for now, and send me Jon Snow.”

 

Her tone is final. He hears this. He bows, eyes drinking her in once more, and she sees in their controlled depths that he is still angry with her. There is a tightness in his face that has returned now the relief has waned. He leaves her without another word.

  
  



	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I'm a day late, but also you got a bonus chapter on Friday, so it all evens out I think.
> 
> I hope you get as much out of this as you can. Thank you for sticking with me through the longest slow-burn in history xx

While Jon is summoned, Missandei returns, and Daenerys orders to be dressed and washed. 

 

“You need to rest, your grace. We don’t want to loosen the stitches.”

 

“I need to look presentable.”

 

“Jon Snow has already seen you in this state, your grace.”

 

“And now he will see me looking better.” She says finally. Missandei obeys, helping her shakily to her feet and washing her skin gently. The pain causes Daenerys’ head to swim. It is a sharp, deep ache, like when she’d lost Rhaego, but unlike then, she will recover from this wound. 

 

Her hair is brushed and braided, her face bathed, her wrists and neck soothed with lavender, and her bandages secured. She asks for a dress in the Meereenese style. She will not be constrained by Westerosi corsets and layers. 

 

The process exhausts her, and Missandei lays her back down, sitting her against her pillows. The girl looks at her for a long time, and Daenerys finds she doesn’t mind. They will have time later to talk, of the future and the past. It has been a long time since they just  _ talked _ . 

 

When Jon arrives, he looks tired too. She remembers when she’d lost her  _ khal _ , how she’d wandered the desert, abandoned by her people and alone in the world, with no one in her home country knowing or caring if she survived. She’d had no one to worry for her, except her bloodriders who remained faithful and Ser Jorah, who never faltered. Now, it seems a knife to the belly has the whole kingdom on tenterhooks. Her life has worth to more than just herself. It is a terrifying, comforting thought. 

 

“Dany…” he says, like a sigh of relief. Her traitorous heart flutters as he rushes to her side. 

 

“How are you feeling? The maester said-“

 

“I shall live, Jon Snow, I can assure you of that.”

 

He lets out a heavy breath, laden with relief. He smiles at her from under his heavy brows. 

 

“You had me worried.”

 

“I can only apologise.”

 

“I imagine Ser Jorah has given you a scolding.”

 

“As much as he is capable of, yes.”

 

“You should not have-“

 

“I know. I  _ know _ . But I had to. They had to see what I’d do for them. They had to see that I wasn’t scared of Cersei, and that I would take a knife if it was for the good of my people.”

 

“They’re abuzz with the story. I’ve heard so many versions I’ve forgotten which one actually happened, which one I was actually there to witness.”

 

“We have to show them that all that matters is that she is gone, and things will be better for them.” 

 

“Of course. The love of the people is difficult to win, and shatters in a second. They do not forget easily, I don’t think. I have heard dozens of stories and hundreds of songs; the common folk like their history to be passed on, even if there is little truth in it.”

 

There is an aching in her chest that is not her wound; a slow, curling resentment that has shown its ugly face several times before now. She is giving everything to these people, sacrificing her autonomy and her heart and her life, and yet they would still remain blissfully ignorant. They  _ still _ wouldn’t see what needs to be done, what’s good for them and what isn’t, and who to trust and who to punish. She will  _ make _ them see. That is her prerogative as queen.

 

The red anger ebbs, and a coolness persists, as Jon takes her hand. The contact is grounding. It is difficult to stand against the tide, the fire and blood that sometimes stops her seeing clearly and instead urges her to use the power she has that makes her  _ more _ than everyone else. A good queen is merciful, patient, strong and understanding, she reminds herself. A good queen does not let her emotions, the madness of her heritage, or her personal problems get the better of her ability to rule. To stand with others, to stand beside another powerful force, tempers the tide a little. She is reminded more forcefully than usual that Jon is a Targaryen. 

 

“Jon…” She begins, knowing the following conversation will not be easy or pleasant. “You have been faithful, brave and admirable in every way. You have kept your promise and fought valiantly for the Realm and for the living. I must ask you to swear one final oath.”

 

She thought he would understand, but he looks confused, a small line appearing between his dark brows.

 

“Yes, my queen?”

 

“Marry me.” She says. She tries to keep her words soft, tries to tell herself that she is offering him a gift, not giving him an order.

 

For some reason, he looks taken aback. She thought he would have figured it out by now. 

 

“What?”

 

“Marry me. Unite our families, and our kingdoms. Keep the North and the South happy. Stop the war that will loom once I’m crowned. Help me bring peace.”

 

His brow furrows deeper. He glances down. 

 

“You’re...I can’t, we’re-“

 

“No one knows. No one  _ needs _ to know.”

 

“I know. You know. It isn’t...I’m sorry Dany but it isn’t  _ right _ .”

 

“It’s the only way, Jon.”

 

“You promised.” His jaw is tight. His words are trying very hard not to be harsh. “You swore you’d ask nothing else of me if I kept the secret.”

 

She had promised that. She had lied, she supposes. 

 

“I...didn’t think this would be a problematic request. I thought…you would want to, perhaps…”

 

His drive to be a hero, to be a good man, overtakes him. 

 

“Dany, I love you, you  _ know _ that. It’s…it’s  _ killing _ me, this feeling I can’t help, but I can’t lie with you and pretend it doesn’t disgust me as much as it draws me.”

 

It hurts. She wishes it didn’t, but it  _ hurts _ to hear him say she disgusts him. 

 

“I  _ love _ you. You are a miracle, a wonder, and we had a connection that I never expected. But I can’t be your husband it-“

 

She sees now, that it will drive him mad. He cannot be at war with himself forever. 

 

“You don’t need to love me.”

 

“What?”

 

“You don’t need to love me. Not in that way, anyway. You need not lie with me, or romance me. You can stay faithfully by my side as my husband in court, and my nephew in private, if you wish.”

 

“But…” He looks hopeful, and her stomach roils. “...we’ll need an heir.”

 

She smiles tightly, sadly. “I cannot, Jon Snow. I will never bear children. I was cursed in the Red Waste, and so will never produce an heir. I intend to appoint an appropriate successor when the time is right.”

 

“Oh…” He looks at her with pity. His thumb brushes across her knuckles. It is too much and not enough. 

 

“I know it will be difficult, torment, even, but it is necessary. Your sister will want independence, and I do not want to go to war with your family. I will grant the North autonomy, to a certain extent. I will allow Sansa and the Starks to rule it as if it were a kingdom, but she must ultimately answer to me. She will accept, and we will know peace, but only if she has certainty. Only if we are joined in marriage, and the Starks are represented by the Throne.”

 

The weight slowly lowers onto his shoulders once more. He is so strong and so cold, yet so gentle and warm like this, when he is fighting within himself. 

 

“What would I be?”

 

“You would be Prince Consort. You need not fear the crown. It shall be my burden.”

 

_ Does he look relieved? Disappointed? Concerned?  _

 

“I’d answer to you then?”

 

“Yes, as you swore.”

 

“Aye, as I swore.”

 

“Nothing need change. You would be safe, have a voice concerning the interests of the people you so crave to protect, and you can satisfy both me and your sister.”

 

“Here?”

 

“Yes. Where else?”

 

He shifts where he sits. His dark clothing, dark hair, dark looks, brooding brow, look so out of place amongst the sandstone and silks. Targaryen or not, he is not built for this climate, this castle, these people. He was  _ comfortable _ in the least comfortable place in Westeros. He is for the cold and the harsh, he is internal, steadfast and quiet. He is the moon, not the sun, ice not fire. He will not be happy here. 

 

And yet, as much as it pains her, she must ask this of him. She must trap him in the Keep he helped her win. 

 

“Would you listen to me?”

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“You don’t have to obey me, but would you listen? I’d need to know I wasn’t just a tool, a means to an end. If I gave you council, offered you advice, asked to make political decisions, would you accept?”

 

She takes a deep breath in. The action makes itself known as it reverberates through the tear in her stomach. 

 

“Yes. I choose you not just because of your family and influence, but because of your heart, and your strength, and your morals. You are a good man, Jon, and I care for you deeply. I respect you, and your opinion. Of course you would be heard.”

 

He holds her gaze earnestly. When his eyes drop, he looks at her wound, hidden by fabric and bandages but still prickling under his intensity. He rests his hand over it. She doesn’t show that it stings. 

 

“I will protect you. I won’t let anything like this happen again. If I am the last person standing between you and an army, I’ll protect you.” 

 

His accent’s toughness catches in the words, holding fast and true. She believes him, yet she knows there are conditions he won’t speak. There will  _ always _ be conditions. 

 

He feels further than ever, sitting at her sickbed with his palm over the wound that could have killed her. They are engaged, she supposes. He has not rejected her. He will sit beside her, for all of her reign, and they will lead this world together, as she’d once dreamed. 

 

But Jon’s dreams are distant and strange to her. His eyes look ahead, afar, his focus on the distance. He dreams of standing at the edge of the world, facing nothing. 

 

The distance may be crossed, she thinks, but it will never be on the same ground. She doesn’t know what is worse; knowing that he will be her husband in name but never fully in heart, or that she finds that it doesn’t hurt as much as she thought it would. 

 

It’s so easy to fall in love. That is, in many ways, what makes it wonderful. 

 

It is less easy, but just as unstoppable, to fall out of love. And that is what makes it terrible. 

 

“Thank you, Jon. I am immeasurably grateful. I know our situation is not ideal, but we can care for each other, and respect one another. I will not ask anything of you that would sully your honour, or endanger your family. I swear it.”

 

His smile is tight and clouded, but she takes it regardless. He raises her hand to his lips and kisses her there. The quivering in her stomach is less like a stampede, and more like a flutter. It is progress. 

  
  



	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe I've written like 27 chapters of this thing. It seems discontent with the final season really has carried me to write this for quite a long time. Thank you to everyone still reading, things are picking up now xx

“I regret to inform you, my lord, but the deed is already done. He is your trueborn leigelord, and that is the end of it.”

 

“He is not trueborn, your grace. He is not the lord we chose. He has never been to the Stormlands, he has no experience with ruling, he is a  _ bastard _ .”

 

“He has been legitimised by the Crown. He a rightful Baratheon, and thus the ruler of Storm’s End. His bravery and skill helped us conquer the Army of the Dead, and that deserves a fitting reward, such as his birthright.”

 

“We don’t know him. We don’t  _ trust _ him. He is a stranger.”

 

“Have you a son, Lord Braddock?”

 

The man shifts his weight back onto his heels at the unexpected question. He observes Daenerys with pale eyes.

 

“Aye.”

 

“If you wish your son to carry on your legacy, if you wish your family glory, then I shall place him into Lord Gendry’s care as a squire. He shall take into account House Dondarrion’s standing, and give your family the recognition you so clearly desire. If you are still unhappy with the Crown’s decision, by all means, go to war with us.”

 

The man’s lips curl in a snarl.

 

“You do not know our ways. I have lived in the shadow of Storm’s End my entire life, as did my father, and grandfather, and great grandfather. You are not a Westerosi. You do not understand our way of life. You cannot make lords of your friends and expect people to obey them.”

 

Daenerys exhales calmly out of her nose. Over her right shoulder, Ser Jorah’s armour clinks as he rests his hand on his sword.

 

“If I knew nothing of Westeros, I would not have conquered it. Why do you think I made Gendry Baratheon a lord? Because I decided to give a powerful seat to a man I didn’t know? Just because of his blood? I know his family, just as I know the Starks, and the Lannisters, and the Martells, and many other smaller houses. I would not be Queen if I did not have Westerosi allies. You believe you speak for your countrymen, however a great deal of them are now loyal to me.”

 

“Because of what? A fairytale? This war you supposedly fought?”

 

Daenery sighs. She turns to Varys. He gives her a minute shake of his head. 

 

“The war was real. There is more proof than I have the time to list. If you wish to close your eyes to what you owe me and my armies, what you owe your new lord, then that is your prerogative, but do not accuse your queen of lying.” 

 

The ice in her tone silences him. Staring up at her on the throne of blades, her hair like snow glowing in the low winter light of the hall, he loses his nerve.

 

Silence trickles down the walls and pools on the floor beneath him. He eventually concedes, with a subtle downward tilt of his head.

 

“I meant no offence, your grace.”

 

“Return to Storm’s End. Pay homage to your new lord, thank him dearly for saving your life and the lives of your children, and take the compensation I have offered you with gratitude. Lord Gendry is a noble and just man, and shall be a worthy ruler, you have my word on that. Should I hear of more disturbances of the peace, I shall have little patience for anything other than a dire situation. You may leave.”

 

His eyes flash in the light of the candles, but he merely nods again. As he turns, she speaks out to him again. 

 

_ Firm of fist, gentle of heart _ , she repeats to herself in her head.

 

“Lord Braddock.” He stops, and faces her once more. “Your uncle, Ser Beric, died a noble death, protecting the warrior who would eventually defeat the Night King. I did not know him personally, but I have heard many tales of his extraordinary life. His sacrifice shall not be forgotten, nor shall his house, I promise you that. If you so desire, I recommend you visit Winterfell. It was his final resting place, and many people currently residing there have fond memories of him, and would likely be grateful of your acquaintance.”

 

She knows not whether this distant relative feels any grief over the loss of Ser Beric, but she needs him to know that she cares, that she is not above the people who were here before her, that she remembers their names and their faces and their houses, that she fought alongside them, and was aware of their roles and their passing also. It seems to work; Lord Braddock looks a little taken aback at her show of sympathy.

 

“T-thank you, your grace. Perhaps I shall.”

 

\- - -

 

It has been two weeks since her coronation. It was a small, somewhat rushed affair, but she threw open the doors of the Red Keep and addressed the gathered citizens of King’s Landing, crowned and powerful, showing no sign of the injury the previous ruler inflicted. The mood was, mercifully, jubilant. As more supplies came from Essos, and the kingdoms now sworn to her, she filled the city with food and metal, wine and wood, furniture and fabric, until the currency value had stabilised somewhat and the number of riots and violent crimes, that always followed in the wake of a coup, had dropped significantly. 

 

It had been a gruelling week of executing traitors and those who would not bend the knee. She did so publicly, but with no great flair, on Tyrion’s advice that she should appear stern but not sadistic. She had met an exhausting number of new knights and lords and ladies, all clamouring over one another to take a seat beside her. She was struggling to remember names, and decided she must read more, write more, revise more, if she wanted to be the one running her kingdom, and not Tyrion, who seemed to know everything already.

 

She remembers sitting on the cold iron, swathed in royal red, Targaryen red, the heaviest, finest and least comfortable gown she had ever worn, and watching two septons whose names she did not know place the crown upon her head and recite her titles to the gathered nobility, sitting in silent anticipation, for what, she could not tell. The air tasted sweet. The weak winter sun struggled through the grand windows and decorated the floor with dreamy ripples. Lord Varys looked, for the first time since she’d met him, content. Tyrion beamed from under his beard. Ser Jorah remained professionally stoic, but his eyes glittered with the word  _ ‘finally’ _ across at her. She felt it catch in her eyes, and shimmer out at the people kneeling before her as she stepped out into the daylight. The crown was not as heavy as she thought it would be.

 

Then came dinner; a somewhat tedious affair for the most part, as people talked at her for hours and in order to make a good impression on her new allies, she refrained from drinking. One lord had drunk so much that he collapsed into his plate and had to be practically carried out by the guards, his embarrassed wife following him, wiping sauce from his beard. The nobles of the Reach were some of the most elegant and beautiful people Daenerys had ever seen, politely introducing themselves in soft, melodic tones, and then glaring around their table, silently, for most of the meal. They had lost their most prevalent house without any personal justice. Bequeathing Highgarden was a duty that Daenerys must oversee as a matter of urgency.

 

The representatives from Dorne were pleasant. Their company was more like that which Daenerys had grown accustomed to in the cities of Essos, and if they held any ill will towards her, they did not show it. They apologised for Ellaria’s absence, but she was wrapped up in securing a form of government of her own, to solidify her place as Princess of Dorne, and then they went back to their fruit and their wine. Two of them, handsome bastards of lesser Martells, watched Daenerys with dark, intent-filled eyes for most of the meal, and kissed her hand for a little too long to be formal as they departed.

 

That is something she has become more aware of. As in Qarth, as in Meereen, she is no longer just an object of desire on account of her looks, but now on account of her position. She is a young, beautiful, well-liked and  _ unmarried _ queen.  _ The _ Queen. Every day, Tryion presents her with letters; lords asking the household’s permission to send their sons to the Keep to ‘assist’ the new government. At every official meeting, every meal, every political discussion, the subject is brought up, usually with several suggestions either from the men themselves or one of her advisors. She has been biding her time, making sure she has forged enough bonds with enough important families as they try to wriggle their male heirs into her life, but soon it must end, before her rejection is considered an insult.

 

“How long was that?” She asks, back in her chambers, pulling her cloak off her shoulders with an exhausted sigh, rolling her head back on her neck.

 

“Five hours.” Says Ser Jorah, who has followed her in without express permission, but assumed, as she left the door open, she was seeking his private company.

 

“We should have a rule that stops them being that long.”

 

“It was shorter than yesterday’s.”

 

“My point exactly. I have had no time to rest.”

 

“As I recall, you used to spend all day ‘hearing the voices of the people’ in Meereen.” He says with a wry smile.

 

She lifts the diadem she has been wearing off her ringleted hair and places it on its plinth by her dresser, then turns to face him with a smile of her own.

 

“Yes, I was younger then.”

 

His amusement spreads to his eyes. Daenerys revels in the thought that every year in her service, his attire has become grander. He stands easily in his golden armour, the white cloak an inch or so above brushing the floor, metal unburnished, polished by somebody else’s hands, looking unfairly tall and as strong as she’s always known him to be. Her captain, her chief of protection, her close advisor and confidant, and the man responsible for her life. He has always been this, but now, at last, he looks the part.

 

“Did I treat Lord Braddock unfairly? When legitimising Gendry, I didn’t even think…”

 

“It is your kingdom,  _ khaleesi _ , it is your right as queen to appoint to the most powerful seats whoever you see fit. Lord Gendry has a birthright, that will help, and he is diligent and kind without being weak. I’m sure they will come round to him. It was good of you to mention Ser Beric, and to offer a compromise. You are learning fast.”

 

“I have to.” She laughs, and pours herself a goblet of wine. “There is no time to sit in lessons, and the longer I leave these disputes to fester, the more out of my control they will become.”

 

“Indeed.” She offers him a cup, he shakes his head. He rarely drinks on duty.

 

“Speaking of which, we must address Highgarden.”

 

“The Tyrell family were a large dynasty, there are many who still bear the name, or the bloodline, though are not the main branch of the family. It would be wise to examine these possibilities before allowing it to simply fall into the hands of whoever is next in the line of succession. The Reach is the bread basket of Westeros, the second largest region behind the North, and a seat of substantial money, influence and population. It cannot be entrusted to just anyone.”

 

Daenerys lowers herself into a chair. “You are right. It must be addressed carefully. It cannot be a stranger to me, or a stranger to the region itself.”

 

They fall into silence as they mull over the problem individually, but Daenerys sighs once more and shakes her head.

 

“Thoughts for tomorrow. I shall discuss it as the first order of business at the small council meeting.”

 

“There is another matter than requires your attention.”

 

“Oh?”

 

He clears his throat. His eyes flit away, through the open doors and out onto the balcony. These quarters are not the rooms Cersei used to inhabit. She has chosen a seat lower down in the Keep, easier to access, closer to the ground and the city, and with more practical advantages.

 

“More men came today, of House Florent, House Dunn, House Tully, and House Mooton. They all wanted to offer their approval of the new Queen and prostrate themselves before your blinding majesty.”

 

She smirks at his sarcasm. He lets his smile turn serious.

 

“They bring sons. It seems every man in the kingdom is fighting for your hand.”

 

She drinks a large mouthful of wine. It is sweet, and chases the bitterness away. She imagines it slipping down her throat, winding through her system, settling in her stomach. She looks at Ser Jorah and licks her lips.

 

“It does seem that way.”

 

“You will…” his brow furrows, like he knows he should not need to explain it to her. “You will need to pick a suitable match soon.”

 

She blinks at him. Beneath the political gravity and friendly concern, she sees the twitch of sorrow, the tick he has never been able to fully suppress, the irrational, insignificant jealousy that he has managed to subdue, but will never fully conquer.  _ If only things were that simple, my knight _ .

 

“The match has been made.”

 

The hurt grows. “It has?”

 

“Yes. I’m sorry I did not tell you sooner, but it was pertinent that it was kept quiet so as not to frighten off nobles that wished to swear fealty to me.”

 

“Who?” He asks, but the downwards tone of his voice tells her he already knows.

 

“Jon Snow.”

 

“Of course.” He masks his emotions well. Most of the time, this irks her, as he is wrong in presuming that she does not wish to see his true feelings. However, at this moment, she is glad of it. She doesn’t think she could stomach another person in her inner circle being disappointed at the man she has chosen to marry.

 

“It is necessary to keep the Starks on our side.” She explains, without really knowing why, without understanding why she feels she has to. “We need to keep Sansa happy, or at least prevent her from doing anything severe by bringing Jon to my way of thinking. He has agreed, and we both know it will be better for uniting the realm and proving to my people that I know and love them already.”

 

“And what of your shared lineage?”

 

They are alone, but still Daenerys stiffens, glancing at the windows in her field of vision. He said it too loudly, these things must not leak out of the walls she has carefully built around them. His resentment has betrayed him. 

 

“No one knows of that, ser. It is not a great enough impediment for Jon or me, and it isn’t as if I can have children. It is best if it is forgotten.”

 

“I just thought it might be in your family’s interest to announce him as your nephew and allow him to marry someone else. Then there will be a way to further the Targaryen line. If he marries you, it dies here.”

 

Years ago, she perhaps would have chided him for his insolence, but he is one of the few people who still speaks to her as a person, without fear or a false cloaking of respect. She drinks in his words, roughened with emotion that neither of them are ready to confront.

 

“I appreciate your concern for my house, but I have thought it over, and Jon is the best candidate by a long way. He is brave, loyal, well-loved and devoted to me. He will stay by my side to protect the peace, will be a good representative for the North, will sit alongside me as the Rhaegal to my Drogon. Besides, with the new population of wildlings looking to settle peacefully, he is a perfect envoy, considering they already look upon him as a sort of king.”

 

“Do  _ you _ want him as King?”

 

“He will not be King. He will be Prince Consort. He has accepted the title, and my ultimate rule. At least this way he will have a seat on the council and a say in how the country he helped save is run.”

 

“And he will not pine for home?”

 

“He may, but he will not leave.” 

 

“He is a bastard.”

 

“He isn’t.”

 

“He is to the rest of the kingdom.”

 

“He has done more than enough to earn his place as a Stark. He was legitimised in the North before we took the South.”

 

“He has no  _ experience _ -”

 

“I won’t hear any more arguments, ser.” She says firmly, rising from her seat. She crosses her arms in front of her and regards him sternly.

 

“I love him. That will help things.”

 

“You love him.”

 

“And he loves me.”

 

“Aye, of course.”

 

“And do you not wish that for me? That a politically smart marriage may also be a happy and fulfilling one?”

 

“Of course I do,  _ khaleesi _ .”

 

“Then we should argue no longer.”

 

“I was trying to see the other side of things. The side not swayed by pre-existing emotion.”

 

The irony of his statement almost makes her laugh. He seems to be aware of his own mistake too, as he glances down at the floor.

 

“My apologies if I spoke out of turn, your grace. I am glad you have not settled on a stranger. I have come to know Jon Snow personally, and I trust him to treat you with all of the respect and fondness you deserve. I agree that there are many political benefits to the match as well.”

 

She knows she doesn’t need his blessing, but it settles the twisting nerves in her stomach anyway. The warmth in his expression is genuine. He will see her through an attachment to a fifth man, and will do it obediently, graciously and with his primary concern being for her safety and happiness. His outbursts of bitterness and hurt are to be expected, and in moments like this, as she sees his love of her overcoming his dislike of those that would take her for themselves, she is struck by more affection than she knows what to do with.

 

She feels a brush of something below her lungs that is not her healing wound or the nerves conjured by this conversation. It is something soft, subtle, out of reach and  _ alive _ . It evades her, and its brief, brilliant appearance makes her chase it, makes her want to capture and examine it. 

 

She thinks of red smoke, rising from his chest, and twisting around her own plume. She wonders, once again, what it all means.

 

“You must return home.” She says. The light breeze from the open windows stirs her skirt, and his cloak.

 

He considers her for a moment. “What makes you say that, your grace?”

 

“You have seen me on the throne. You have been appointed Lord Commander of my Queensguard. The throne is stable, but I’m not sure if the same can be said of Bear Island. You are its lord now, you must return and set your affairs in order.”

 

He nods slowly, as if the thought had not occurred to him. He has been answering ravens and speaking with messengers, and she presumed that it was relating to his home. Perhaps he never thought to ask for leave to go himself. 

 

“You must show your face, meet your people, earn their respect and forgiveness, appoint someone to govern your land, and then return to me.”

 

He looks, for a moment, ashamed. 

 

“Yes, I...I should. There’s only so long they will abide having me hold the title of lord from King’s Landing. Are you certain you will be alright if I were to go?”

 

She smiles. “I have Grey Worm. And, if what they say is true, there should be little reason to kill me.”

 

“Someone always has some reason to kill the monarch.”

 

“Well no one has succeeded yet. I can spare you for a few months while you go to your people. Select a suitable person to rule in your stead, an heir even, and then come back and protect me yourself.”

 

She looks at him for a long moment. The natural set of his brow is so like his fearsome little cousin’s was.

 

“That is...if you wish to return.”

 

“ _ Khaleesi _ ?”

 

“The lure of home is not one that I am unfamiliar with. Once you return, you may see what you have been missing. Once you return, you may wish to stay there and rule yourself and…” She forces the words out. “...and if that is what you want, you have my leave to do so.”

 

He looks genuinely confused. “My place is here, at your side.”

 

“Yes, it is. But a man can be pulled in many directions. You have done what you promised you would, what you once said was all you wanted, and you have seen me seated on the Iron Throne. For all intents and purposes, I cannot hold you to that promise anymore, now that it is fulfilled. I am...infinitely grateful for everything you have done, what you have fought and what you have sacrificed, and I understand that you have a life to live of your own now. Go and see if you can find it.”

 

She expected to see more outrage, more perplexion, more incredulity in his response, but a flutter of panic seeps into her throat as she sees him looking... _ happy? _

 

_ Does he want to leave? _

 

She meant what she said; she cannot keep him here when he is needed elsewhere, and she will not be selfish and deny him his home. But seeing him looking at her with appreciation and not despair instills in her a terror that he really will leave, so much so that she almost wants to take back the offer.

 

“Thank you,  _ khaleesi _ . I owe you as much as you owe me, perhaps even more. I will leave for home, if that is what you suggest I do. I will see the Island again, and then find someone to watch over it.”

 

Her heart settles, and she reads him easily;  _ if you offer me a choice, I will always choose you _ .

 

“As you wish, ser.” She says softly. The tone feels unnatural in her throat, as she now commands more than she speaks.

 

“When will you be married?”

 

“Within the month.”

 

“I may be absent for your wedding, then. I hope it is more pleasant than the first.”

 

_ You were there for the first, that was a comfort _ , she thinks, but does not say.

 

“Stay for the wedding.”

 

He draws in a silent breath, like she is testing his restraint, but nods complicitly. “If that is what you wish.”

 

She wants to say ‘it would bring me comfort’, or ‘it does not seem right for you to be absent’ or ‘the day will pass easier with you there’, but she doesn’t. Why does she struggle to express sentiment to the person who would begrudge it the least?

 

“Do you guard me tonight?”

 

“Aye,  _ khaleesi _ .”

 

“I have told you, it is within your right to delegate. You are Lord Commander, you should not perform such menial tasks.”

 

“Indeed, you have told me that, your grace, and I have taken your words into account.”

 

She could tell him to give guard duty to another of the soldiers she has seen fit to make goldcloaks, but she will not. She sleeps infinitely better in this strange place knowing he is outside. 

 

“Very well. At least have dinner with me.”

 

“With pleasure.”

  
  



	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! New week, new chapter. First, to clear some things up!
> 
> I am now aware that some of you are rather impatient for the money shot, as it were. It is an impatience I understand! This is a very slow burn, longer than I anticipated, but for those of you asking if it is even a Jorah/Dany fic, yes it definitely is. I have written the chapter where 'it happens' (or rather, where it starts), and if you are only interested in that and would like to know the chapter number so you can come back when it's posted, please leave a comment and I will tell you.
> 
> This story has a structure that it has to follow to make sense. I cannot rush to the ending because it would not be doing either of them justice. As for their relationship, Daenerys is not in love with him in canon. I have to build on what I have, and I'm sorry that it is taking a while but I really think rushing into it would do them both a disservice. Their relationship is sooooo complicated!
> 
> Criticism is indispensable, otherwise I would just be writing blind. I write this for you, not for me, and it's important to remember that. That being said, the frustration that came across in some of your reviews was detrimental to my effort to keep writing. I was so upset that I'd upset so many of you that I didn't want to write anything. I value your feedback immensely, and I have and will continue to alter my narrative to better suit my readers, but I do this for leisure, so please don't make it a chore. If you don't like the way the story is heading, I am sorry, but that is fine, and you can stop reading. There is no need to let me know quite so viscerally. This is not an attack on you wonderful people that give me your time, and most of the reviews were not deliberately cruel or anything, but rather a plea from an author who has too much to do already!
> 
> Sorry for the unpleasantness, and thank you to those with encouraging words! That saw me through. I've actually almost finished writing the whole thing! And I think, if you stick with me, it will be worth it.
> 
> xxx

“Lord Hand, there is a man here to see you.”

 

Tyrion has had enough with this boy. Despite being unsure of what his actual _ job _ is, he is so terrified of making a good impression that his attempts at avoiding being rude circle all the way back to insolence. So scared is he of making eye contact with Tyrion that he now generally avoids looking at him altogether, so afraid of committing a faux pas regarding his height that he somehow manages to commit all of them simultaneously. As now, for example, as he goes to bow, then panics that Tyrion may misconstrue is as him bending down to his level, that he abandons the gesture of respect altogether.

 

“What ‘man’?”

 

“He won’t say his name, ser. He says he’s an old friend.”

 

“‘My lord’, Lukis, when addressing a lord you use ‘my lord’. I’m no knight.”

 

“Yes, of course, sorry, my lord.”

 

“Send him in. Take his weapons off him first. If he got this far into the Red Keep,  _ someone _ must have recognised him.”

 

Lukis gives another awkward half-bow and scuttles out. He is immeasurably tall and unfortunately lanky. He is the second son of some lord in the Reach, so it is important that he is shown courtesy and given  _ something _ to do.

 

When he shows the visitor in, Tyrion’s eyebrows rise despite himself.

 

“So you made it through another war? I don’t know why I’m surprised.”

 

“This one seemed to be a lot shorter.” Says Bronn. He looks well; full of colour, his hair shining, his clothes clean.

 

“I’d say I was wondering when you’d show up, but I’ve just been so busy, you see…”

 

“Yeah yeah, I’m sure. Back in this tower, huh? Still seems a bit cruel to make you walk up all those stairs.”

 

“It’s the only exercise I get.”

 

“No more axe-weilding?”

 

“No, I’m afraid not. During the battle against the Dead, you’ll be delighted to hear that I cowered in the crypts with the women and children.”

 

A shadow passes over Bronn’s face, briefly, uncharacteristically, so much so that Tyrion wonders if he imagined it. 

 

The other man strolls over to the window and surveys the sprawling city. 

 

“So that was real then?”

 

_ Oh _ . Tyrion forgets that people in the South live in blissful ignorance of the true existential horror of whatever the Night King was. He forgets that their minds are somewhat at ease, believing what they perceive to be the only truth of the world.

 

“Yes, it was real. We lost thousands, but the younger Stark girl saved the world, in the end.”

 

Bronn sniffs. He rubs at his mustache. 

 

“Plenty of witnesses then?”

 

“You don’t believe me?”

 

“No, I think I do, I just don’t want to.”

 

Bronn has never made light of his own concern for his life, but he’s never seemed  _ scared _ before, let alone openly admitted it.

 

“Well yes, lots of witnesses, lots of horror stories, lots of extinct Northern houses. What do you think we were doing up there, sitting round the fire, drinking and singing songs?”

 

“Knowing you, yes.”

 

“Well, yes, there was a bit of that,” he concedes, “But the real tale is the battle.”

 

“How would you know? Weren't you cowering underground?”

 

Tyrion smiles self-deprecatingly. He and Bronn never get on as well as they do when they’re degrading him.

 

“Yes, I was. With the women and children, don’t forget.”

 

“Funny, that. You say you fought the Dead?”

 

“Dead men reanimated by the Night King, yes.”

 

“And you were...in the  _ crypts _ ....?”

 

Tyrion’s mouth falls open in offence.

 

“Well it seems obvious  _ now _ , but at the time we had no way of knowing the extent of his powers, and it is apparently the safest place in Winterfell.”

 

“And what happened?”

 

Tyrion looks at his feet, clenching his fist round his gold rings.

 

“I valiantly fought them off. Only a few of us died, before Arya got to their leader and the corpses fell.”

 

“Good job. If you were stuck in the safest place in Winterfell with a load of mouldy Stark corpses trying to kill you, I imagine they would have had to scrape you off the walls after a few hours.”

 

“Yes yes, enough of that. I was awfully brave in the face of danger, I’ll have you know. It may not have been my brightest plan, but I survived, didn’t I?”

 

Bronn stays where he is, but runs his quick, deep-set eyes over Tyrion. The corner of his mouth twitches.

 

“Yes, it seems you did.” 

 

Tyrion has known Bronn long enough to hear the unvoiced addition of ‘and I’m glad of it’.

 

“And where have you been, ser? It’s unlike you to find yourself away from the action.”

 

“If it were my choice I’d always be away from the action, and no amount of money could convince me to go and freeze my cock off up North fighting dead men.”

 

“So were you down South fighting living men?”

 

He shrugs. His constant easy posture makes even his fine clothing look casual. 

 

“Not much. Mostly been lying low. I have a castle now.”

 

“Lolys has come into her land?”

 

“Aye.”

 

“And her older sister?”

 

“A real tragedy. My poor wife was heartbroken.”

 

He knows it is pointless asking if Bronn was involved, but he finds he wants to because, after everything, killing an innocent woman to get her land seems like something Bronn might consider beneath him now.

 

“Well, congratulations on your good fortune, friend. And your castle, at long last.”

 

“Many thanks.”

 

“So you hid until all of the nastiness was over? You waited until the rain stopped and now have re-emerged looking to assume your former position?”

 

Tyrion sculpts his words to be cutting, but once more Bronn simply shrugs. 

 

“Yeah, I suppose so. Need anyone killing?”

 

Tyrion rolls his eyes. Despicable or not, Bronn is honest, and as much as he tries to deny it, he feels a kinship with Tyrion. An effective, practical killer with no conscience and a fondness for him is something that is incredibly useful for Tyrion.

 

“Not at the moment.”

 

“Not surprised. They love the new one in the Crownlands. She seems to know what she’s doing.”

 

“She’s been ruling for many years across the sea. She’s developed quite a knack for it.”

 

“And she’s barely out of girlhood. Conquerors are getting younger, or am I just getting old?”

 

“Both, I think.” Says Tyrion, with a sigh that says he shares the sentiment. 

 

He observes Bronn for a moment. He still isn’t looking at him, but his fingers drum along the hilt of the dagger strapped to his hip. Lukis has taken his sword, but not his smaller blade, ostentatiously displayed in a gemstoned sheath.  _ The boy is so useless it’s dangerous _ , thinks Tyrion.

 

“Did Cersei call you here?”

 

“What?”

 

“My sister knew of your rank and leanings. She knew you spent time with Jaime and I. If you were trying to remain neutral in your castle in the Crownlands, she would call for you. She would try to use you to get to us.”

 

Bronn’s brow furrows. “How did you know that?”

 

“You’ve been away from me too long, my friend.”

 

Bronn pushes off the wall he is leaning against and faces Tyrion.

 

“Aye, she sent for me. Or rather, she sent her little maester weasel to find me. He offered me all the money and land I wanted if I put a crossbow bolt through you and your brother’s heart.”

 

“...And?”

 

“Like I said, I didn’t fancy the journey North in this cold weather.”

 

“So you didn’t accept?”

 

“And have your sister blow me to bits like she did the last people that said no to her? Of course not. I took the weapon, I just never said I’d take the job.”

 

“So...you didn’t even consider it?”

 

“Oh aye, I considered it. She looked to be in a fairly stable position, and what were the chances of the Night King being real? If you rode South and she found out I hadn’t even attempted to kill you she’d have my head. In the end, it seemed stupid for me to pick a side when everything was so fucked.”

 

“So you didn’t betray me, but you didn’t not  _ not _ betray me?”

 

“Look, do you really think I’d kill you for gold? For land? I’m Lord Stokeworth now, I’m a knight, I have my own land, my own house, my own riches. I’d only consider it if I thought I’d die if I didn’t, and by the time she was flying her dragons South, I thought the Queen might have more pressing matters than a sellsword that got away.”

 

“A risky gamble.”

 

“And one that seems to have paid off.” The sun glints off the gold buttons on his doublet as he examines his fingernails. 

 

“Indeed. Well, you’re more than welcome to come and go as a guest of the Queen. I shall vouch for your valour and you can pledge your budding house to her. And, should I ever need you, I imagine you will be able to leave your wife for one night.”

 

“Aye, I imagine I will.”

 

_ Why now? Why wait so long, and yet not quite long enough for everything to be stable? What reason would he have for coming to me now? _

 

Ah.

 

“I suppose you’d like to stay for the wedding?”

 

Bronn sniffs, tugs his belt up, lifts his head higher.

 

“Stokeworth is a small house. I didn’t expect an invitation, but I thought you might be glad to see me.”

 

The thought of him and Bronn, sneaking away from another dreary royal feast to drink with whores, is immeasurably appealing, almost like times long passed.

 

“Well, I’d be more than happy to have you there. I’ll see a room is prepared. You may send for your wife.”

 

“Thank you, my lord. I look forward to properly meeting this terrifying little queen.”

 

“Please don’t fall in love with her. That seems to be a growing problem amongst her inner circle.”

 

Bronn snorts. “Not made for love, me.”

 

They talk more, sitting across a bowl of fruit and refilling each other’s cups. When he leaves, he shakes Tyrion’s hand like he means it, and despite himself, Tyrion is happy that he is back.

 

\- - -

 

At her last wedding, Daenerys had been too frightened to eat anything.

 

Rabbit blackened and left to sit in the sun was not appealing, of course, nor the coarse alcohol and dry bread they had offered, but her stomach was twisted so small it felt impossible to fit anything in it.

 

Now, looking at herself in the looking glass, Missandei’s eyes warm and watery, braiding her hair as they sit alone in her royal chambers, a different tension tugs at her gut, and she finds it almost as impossible to eat.

 

Things have changed.  _ Immeasurably _ they have changed. The wind is colder, the language slips into her head without catching on anything, she is a woman in body and mind, she has had lovers and lost them all, and she is ready to do it all again, once more forming a union that is both wise and dangerous, political and personal. She will once more marry for a kingdom.

 

She has had no time to herself recently. Ruling is every bit as difficult as she thought it would be, and spare moments are spent with her children, angry to be far from her, but glad of the free wing they possess when she isn’t keeping them on a short leash. She has barely seen Jon, as he seems to be finding it as difficult to sit still as she is, and whenever they speak, there is a longing in his eyes that makes her uncomfortable. He is longing to cross the barrier between them, or to build it higher. Longing to give in to his new home, or fight to return to his old one. This threshold of their relationship has done neither of them any favours, and, as much as it is nowhere near the grand and romantic affair she once thought it would be to marry him, it is at least  _ something _ to define the uneven ground they face each other upon. Although she once dreamed of a marriage of her choosing, to a man she loved without complication or reservation, she must accept that she is marrying that same man, but no longer for the same reasons.

 

At least what comes after the ceremony will not be so new and terrifying. At least she won’t sob through the pain and embarrassment and spend the next few weeks feeling as if her body is not her own. At least thinking about lying with her new husband won’t make her chest constrict and her heart race too quickly to draw breath. For all she should enjoy her wedding night, she thinks it is unlikely there will even  _ be _ one, and she cannot force Jon to accept her physically out of a sense of duty. 

 

And, at this point, she isn't sure she wants him that way anymore.

 

“You are beautiful, your grace.” Says Missandei, on a single breath, like a thought she’d accidentally voiced. Daenerys smiles, genuinely.

 

She does look beautiful. Her gown blends blue and white like a scattering of clouds, like the waves that break on white sand in the Bay of Dragons. Intricate vines of gold curl around the seams, dipping together at her waist, flaring out at her feet, sculpting her shoulders and exposed collarbone seemingly out of stone. Her hair is longer than she would like it, but she has had little time to cut it, and so Missandei has twisted it into curls and wound the majority of it into a crown of her own, enough elaboration for Westerosi royalty but enough braiding for a  _ khaleesi _ . Her skin is clear and her form fleshed out from fine food. Her cheekbones cast shadows below them in a way they didn’t when she was younger. Her eyes glitter with wisdom, not tears. She is beautiful, but not like a child being sold, like a dragon before its subjects. All majesty and no innocence.

 

“Nobody makes me presentable as you do. Thank you, Missandei.”

 

When she rises, her heavy skirts falling around her, she turns to embrace her friend. The action seems to shock Missandei, but she pulls the Queen closer with little hesitation. Daenerys remembers to blink back tears, before realising that there are none in her eyes.

 

“Let’s go. It wouldn’t do to miss the royal wedding.”

 

A squadron of ten guards escorts her downstairs, with Missandei close behind, followed by two other serving girls carrying baskets of flowers dusted with flakes of fine gold. The wedding will take place in the throne room, since the Sept of Baelor is still a smouldering pile of rubble. She feels a flutter of nervous excitement, which takes her by surprise, as she approaches the ancient doors. 

 

With no father to escort her to her new husband, and no man worthy enough of claiming ownership of a queen, she will walk the aisle between the rows of guests alone, to meet Jon at the end. However, Tyrion will follow, and Ser Jorah; her closest. She meets them outside. Tyrion looks struck, and makes a show of opening and closing his mouth, which makes her smile. He kisses her hand, which he has never done before. She feels warmth start to blossom in the garden of her anxiety.

 

Ser Jorah doesn’t look at her too closely. She has noticed his distance in the last few weeks, and they both know why. She has assured herself that it is for the best, that she is to be married and it would not do to have the Lord Commander of her Queensguard feeling sorry for himself or wallowing in despair.

 

He greets her cordially enough, handsome in his shining armour, his beard trimmed and looking as full of life as ever after his death in Winterfell. He gives her a quick but intense once-over, and she finds she doesn’t mind his gaze. In fact, she’d like him to look at her more. She likes the way she is reflected in his eyes.

 

“Are you ready,  _ khaleesi _ ?”

 

His voice is gentle, and she remembers him bowing to her, handing her weathered tomes, speaking a tongue she understood, his eyes so kind, his presence so comforting, in a land of foreigners and her brother’s venom. She remembers meeting him, but only just, because she met him on a day so full of everything else, so terrible and important that how was she supposed to remember something so simple and important?

 

Now the tears come. She almost scolds herself for their pooling, and wills them not to spill. It wouldn’t do to ruin her appearance with weeping.

 

Ser Jorah looks alarmed. “Is there something wrong,  _ khaleesi _ ?”

 

She wants to touch his cheek and make him look at her. She wants him to reach for her, and to slip into his arms. She wants a last moment of comfort before something so horribly formal takes place.

 

“No, nothing is wrong.” She sniffs and laughs at herself. “You were at my last wedding, ser.”

 

“Aye, that is when we met.”

 

“I thought it was the most terrible thing to happen to me, and yet now I see that, had I not married Khal Drogo, I would not have my dragons, my title, my  _ khalasar _ , maybe even my throne. And I would not have you, my knight.”

 

His smile is real now, pulling at his lips stubbornly until his blue eyes melt with memories.

 

“A reasonable price to pay, perhaps.”

 

_ Definitely _ , she thinks, but does not say. “I am grateful for it.” She does say.

 

And now he will see her through another marriage. He will sit at the feast, converse with the guests, protect her from harm, bear witness to the vows, and watch her leave for her marriage bed, all with no complaints except the tearing inside that he cannot entirely conceal. He would rather suffer entirely alone than make her feel guilty for a single moment, this she knows.

 

And yet, they are long past bitterness, she realises. They have been together for too long, depended on each other too much, felt emotions too intense, to begrudge something as minor as a wedding. His love transcends a man’s, she sees, and he is not constrained to the petty foibles of romantic fools who think love dies when it appears to be given to another.

 

She’s used to people staring at her as she passes through a crowd, the silent centre of a storm, focused and tense, with everyone holding their breath around her. She has inspired awe and fear in equal measure, but she thinks this is the first time people look upon her as a maiden, something delicate and precious, something to be passed into the protection of a stronger man. She feels foolish in her beautiful dress, bizarre with her perfect curls, absurd in this very public display of personal feeling. She holds her head high and tries to instill her posture with power to regain some familiar turf, as she walks towards the septon, and towards Jon. 

 

He looks uncomfortable in his fine clothes. She feels a swell of affection in this moment of mutual apprehension and awkwardness. The ceremony then passes in a blur. She barely registers the septon’s words, how she repeats them after Jon, like the echo of an echo. Then there is a wolf fur cloak over her shoulders, a kiss pressed on her by familiar lips, and polite applause from the hall. 

 

She registers only three faces as she walks out into then watery winter sunlight with Jon; Jaime, who looks distant, Sansa, who looks calculating, and Jorah, who is turning away to assume his position at the front of her guard, with a soft, sad smile on his face.

 

They stand side by side on the steps and wave to the public. She itches for a time when she was a queen of her own definition, when she could walk among her people, touch and be touched, see their individual faces and hear the hundreds of voices that make up a crowd, but these people do not unanimously feel liberated. She is well-liked, for which she is grateful, but it wouldn’t do to get this far and be murdered on her wedding day by a disgruntled Fleabottom merchant who preferred Lannister gold.

 

Jon looks sombre once more. She knows he will hate this part of life. She will do him the kindness of allowing him to prove his worth in battle rather than in diplomacy.

 

The feast is a mixed affair. Daenerys is introduced to every well-wisher at what feels like a glacial pace, but she knows that she has to make a good impression. Sansa exchanges a few polite words with her, and Daenerys resents the fact that she looks for the barb beneath them. They have come to terms somewhat, with Sansa happy with the Northern representation in the South, enough at least to slow her push for independence. Daenerys knows she is less than happy with the marriage from a personal standpoint, believing firmly (and correctly) that Jon belongs in Winterfell. However, she knows the advantage it gives her family, she knows the delicate balance they have brought upon the Realm with the match, and so must begrudgingly accept it as the way best way forward, as both Daenerys and Jon have.

 

“Look after my brother, your grace. I hope you will make each other very happy.” Her tone, even as ever, is warmer than usual. She means it. Daenerys smiles at her and offers her thanks. 

 

She steals Jon then. Daenerys follows them with a violet gaze as Arya and Sansa engulf him from either side. Bran did not make the journey, which Daenerys is somewhat grateful for, as his vacant yet terrifyingly perceptive stare had always set her on edge.  _ There must always be a Stark in Winterfell _ , she knows.

 

Sansa is her sister now. She will endeavour to be less frosty with her, less suspicious. She will not trust her, as the Queen she can count on one hand the people she can trust, but she will try to be more amicable. She drains her goblet with this new resolution sitting in her head. 

 

“Your Grace.” 

 

Ellaria Sand approaches her table. Her cheeks are still hollowed, her eyes still sunken, but Daenerys notices the warming of her complexion, the added sheen to her hair. She has been in Dorne for only a moon and already her native country has breathed new life into her.

 

“Welcome, Ellaria.” She greets the woman as a friend. She sees behind her two young men; the princes of Dorne who had come to her coronation to drink wine and pick at the bones of the Lannister empire. 

 

“May I introduce my distant nephews; Cryus and Efran Sand.”

 

The two boys, young in years, handsome of face, approach the Queen. They kneel, and one after the other press a kiss to the back of her hand. 

 

“We were Doran and Oberyn’s distant nephews. We share no blood with Ellaria, but we are glad of her favour, as well as yours, your grace.” Says the eldest, Cryus. His lips are full, like a woman’s. He and his brother both have long eyelashes.

 

“I truly regret that I never met him.” She says.

 

He bows his head. The other stares at her with a more open expression. 

 

“Thank you for joining me for my wedding feast. I hope your chambers are to your liking. If you need anything, you must ask for it.”

 

“Thank you, your grace.” Cyrus bows and retreats back to his table. Efran’s curious look stays stuck to Daenerys for a moment before he follows. Ellaria takes a seat beside the Queen at her invitation. Her hand where it rests beside Daenerys’ on the table is bony and emaciated still.

 

“How are things in Dorne? Reports are mixed.” Asks Daenerys, surveying the space before her high table which has been cleared for dancing.

 

“The land continues to prosper. Winter has not yet chased away the sun.”

 

“And politically?”

 

“Uneasy peace is preferable to war, no?”

 

“Of course. I only meant, if you require any military assistance-”

 

“I do not.” She says sharply, and then visibly reminds herself who she is speaking to. “Thank you for your concern, your grace, but I know the land and the people. I do not require your help in this matter.”

 

“I am grateful for your support in my claim. There is too much work to be done to be fighting amongst ourselves so early, and my dragons could do with the rest.”

 

It is a subtle threat laced within a greater expression of camaraderie. She knows Ellaria will not miss this.

 

“You saved my life. I would have died in that cell if you had not found me that day. The horrors I endured will never leave me, but to know that monster got what she deserved soothes my anger somewhat. I have no reason to fight you. You, who saved my life, gave me my freedom and my title and killed my enemies.”

 

“We are allies. I would never have done anything different. I am glad you are recovering, and that Dorne is prosperous. If you would like to appoint one of your nephews to my court, I would gladly accept them, providing that they can make themselves useful.”

 

“I have a girl, Maliya, one of Oberyn’s children too young to fight with me and her sisters before your arrival in Westeros. She has always been one for books rather than blades. If you require her expertise in the ways of money, she may be useful to your treasury. Shall I mention to Cyrus and Efran that, should they wish, you would train them in your guard?”

 

“Yes, I would happily.”

 

Ellaria looks out towards the table where the Starks sit. Her chin juts out more than it used to. It somehow manages to make her look more brittle  _ and _ more ferocious.

 

“I hope your husband brings you joy. From what I have seen of King’s Landing, they rarely do.”

 

“There is not enough left of the old King’s Landing to carry on its traditions.”

 

“You say that, and yet here you are, hosting a royal wedding despite the apparent need for a husband.”

 

“What makes you think I haven’t married for love?”

 

Ellaria scrutinises her with a smirk. The hunger that sits permanently, comfortably, in her eyes rears its head. She turns from Daenerys to look across the hall at her new husband.

 

“Lots of things make me think that.”

 

Daenerys wants to defend her own pride, to scold the older woman for her insolence, the latent disrespect of her words, but she does not. Dorne is different, and Ellaria will speak her mind regardless. She is unpredictable in many ways, and Daenerys remembers Tyrion’s words. She would do well to keep her happy.

 

“Very well. I am glad of your presence, regardless.” She says, and rises without excusing herself. 

 

Her corset is too tight, and rubs against the still-tender place on her stomach where the knife wound has not quite healed. She feels a headache creeping in as the tight twists of her hair pull at her scalp, as if she is being encircled, trapped, and devoured by her wedding attire. She looks for Missandei to ask her to loosen the ties of her gown, but finds herself distracted, and moves to speak with Ser Jorah instead.

 

“Good evening, your grace.”

 

“Good evening.”

 

“Are you alright?”

 

She nods.

 

“Would you like me to escort you outside for a moment?”

 

She gives him a long look, a not altogether soft look, but eventually nods again, gratefully.

 

She feels eyes slide to her and then slide away as she slips out into the cloisters. She can barely remember a time when she wasn’t a point of attention. She hardly knows what it is like to be truly alone, truly unobserved. She wonders if she would even exist if she were not perceived.

 

She allows herself a moment to lean against the cooling stone and breathe in the air. The last rays of sunlight streak the cloudy sky. She blinks at her companion, and concedes defeat.

 

“I would ask a favour of you, ser.”

 

“Of course,  _ khaleesi _ .”

 

If she had doubts, his familiar voice, rough from standing silently for most of the evening, allays them instantly.

 

“This corset pressures my wound. I would like it loosened, please.”

 

He looks uneasy for a moment. “Shall I fetch a serving girl? It might be inappropriate for me to attempt to help you myself.”

 

She raises an eyebrow at him. He averts his eyes. He is embarrassed by his embarrassment. 

 

She pulls her hair over one shoulder as she turns her back to him. His touch against the base of her spine is gentle and sure. He finds the strings with ease and loosens them briskly, assuredly, as if he is trying not to touch her too much. She cannot hear his breathing even though he is close to her. She becomes strangely aware of her own, as if she is breaking the silence, as if he would notice.

 

He eases his fingers between the corset and her shift, pulling it outwards, loosening it slowly. His voice startles her.

 

“How much?”

 

“A little more, please.”

 

She thinks of being undressed by men in the past, how turning her back to them made her tremble, made her fill with a sort of nervous, keen anticipation, both powerful and vulnerable. Here, in a courtyard on the day of her wedding, with Ser Jorah relieving the pressure against her stab wound, she feels calmer than she has in weeks, entirely still and sure, almost delirious with it.

 

_ And yet… _

 

She is surprised by the thrill that runs down her spine. She is surprised that, despite how much she trusts him, it is not  _ that _ different from the other times...

 

His voice is low and soft when he speaks again; “Is that better?”

 

“Yes.” She sighs, rolling her shoulders back. She has stood constricted in front of her people and looked beautiful and rigid, and now she allows herself to let the tension out a little.

 

His ties the strings as best he can and slips them back into her bodice. He was more adept than she had expected. This makes her think of him undressing his wife. She blinks the thought away stubbornly as she turns back to face him.

 

“Thank you.” She says. She dwells for a moment on how pleasant it is to seek company and comfort from her closest friend, and not just a sword to hide behind. Now, for the first time since her first wedding, she feels as if their relationship need not be defined predominantly by him stopping her from getting killed, and instead she sees it spill and soften into companionship.

 

And then she remembers her own wishes.

 

“When will you leave, ser?”

 

He swallows. “I shall depart with the Starks in a few days,  _ khaleesi _ .”

 

“Please take care of yourself. I will not have Bear Islanders decide to kill you in your sleep because you have been away for too long.”

 

He chuckles. “I have no idea how I will be received, in all honesty, but I will try not to be killed.”

 

She takes his hand. He doesn’t even flinch.

 

“I am very grateful for your presence here tonight, Jorah.”

 

“I am proud to have seen it.” He says, his head held high. “He is a good man, maybe even a worthy one, and I wish you happiness for all your years.”

 

“Thank you.” She says, and means it in every way. 

 

Something sits between them, unobtrusive, but making its presence known. She thinks of the dream she has been having where he carries her. She thinks about the brush against her lungs that was  _ new _ and yet strangely familiar when, for a second, she was terrified that he would leave her. 

 

When he leads her back inside to her guests, she is aware of stepping away from him, of dropping his hand, as if now there is a secret to be kept.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all of your lovely reassurance on the last chapter, it has given me such a boost. I am a fickle creature, and sustain myself on praise, so it's done wonders for my drive to write. 
> 
> If you're just here for Jorah/Dany, allow me the first half of this one please. It means a lot to me to write these two. It has been unspeakably cathartic to think this up in the wake of the ending they got. I hope it's cute enough at the end to justify you reading it.
> 
> Also, I don't want to ruin it by spoiling it, but you really don't have to wait long for things to start kicking off with the main pairing too ;)
> 
> Thanks for reading, I hope everyone has a nice Halloween xx

“How the fuck did you manage that, you daft cunt?” Says Bronn in between bouts of laughter. 

 

Jaime swings around his right hand, and the jug it is currently wedged in. He peers at it curiously, as if he has genuinely forgotten.

 

“I think it was to stop my brother from drinking any more.” He shouts over the happy roar of the feast around him.

 

“You should have worried more about how much _you_ were drinking.” Bronn attempts to pull the jug off his golden hand, but loses all strength as he bursts into another peal of laughter. 

 

“You’re making quite the racket.” Says Brienne as she approaches, a confused smile on her face that descends into horror when she sees what is causing the ruckus. The small group around Ser Jaime parts to let her through.

 

“You…” He looks sheepish, but cannot fight the smile off his face. She catches his amusement. 

 

“You...got your false hand...stuck in a wine jug…?”

 

He freezes, looks between his hand and Brienne, then smirks around the word “No?”

 

“What did you  _ do _ ?!” She asks as they descend into more laughter. Jaime waits to catch his breath.

 

“I just...put my hand in...and now it won’t...come out…”

 

Brienne, jubilant, turns to a servant. “Can you fetch some oil please?”

 

“Oil, my lady?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“From...my lady’s bedchamber?”

 

“It doesn’t need to be anything pretty, just something slippery.”

 

“I can go and retrieve some from the chambers.”

 

“No, that will take too long, and he doesn’t deserve luxury for being so stupid. Bring butter from the kitchens.”

 

“Butter?”

 

“You heard the knight, now shove off, the Kingslayer’s in discomfort!” Said Bronn, smirking as the boy shuffles off, spooked by his tone.

 

“You’re going to fry me like a fish?”

 

“I’m going to help you, now stop fidgeting.” She says, and her tone of severity is significantly weakened by the smile that refuses to leave her face. 

 

The butter gets everywhere. Jaime ‘accidentally’ smears his buttery left hand along Bronn’s doublet, and Brienne is almost as covered as he is by the time they wriggle the jug off. Jaime’s golden hand gleams more golden with the added coating.

 

He sighs. “Thank you, Ser Brienne.”

 

“You’re more than welcome.” The laughter has distilled in her voice, marinated in her face, dripped its way through her whole body. She is bright in her jubilance, radiating good humour out into the dinning hall. He catches his breath for a moment. 

 

“Accompany me, Ser Brienne. All that excitement has made me crave fresh air.”

 

She looks a little wary, but follows him out, half expecting Bronn to follow them. When he doesn’t she sends him a questioning look. He just smiles and raises his eyebrows. 

 

_ Everyone has been acting strangely tonight _ , she thinks.

 

Even in the South, the clawed fingers of Winter grip the buildings, squeezing the air from the lungs within. Wrapped in a cloak, and her armour, Brienne reluctantly follows Jaime out of the Keep, watching with amusement as he stumbles slightly on the dark steps.The moon cuts a precise hole in the clear sky, its cold light draining the colour from Jaime’s red and gold clothes. He seems to know where he is going, so she follows like a sentinel, pushed by duty, pulled by affection. He leads her down another alley, and through an unassuming wooden door. Guards on either side nod at them as the slip past, and Brienne wonders if they were Cersei’s men once, or if they were brought here with the tide of Northmen and Essosi. 

 

They arrive on a beach. She’d actually describe it more as a shore than a beach, pebbles underfoot rather than sand, the tideline hissing and aggressive rather than warm and lethargic. Jaime hasn’t spoken to her in several minutes. She wonders if they have run out of things to say to each other, as she once dreamed and then, later, feared. She wonders if he was never in any doubt that she would follow him. 

 

A gull hears them coming and lifts itself sleepily into the air on soft wings. Brienne watches it with admiration at its grace, then notices the crab wriggling in its beak.

 

“You were going to clean yourself up.”

 

“And so I shall.” He says without looking at her. He slips out of his cloak.

 

“Are you mad? It’s almost Winter, you’ll freeze to death.”

 

“Relax, I am not going for a late night swim, if that’s what you think.” He says, allaying her concern then adding fuel to it by rolling up the sleeves of his tunic.

 

She watches the surrounding water marble as he rinses the butter off his false hand. She watches the oil-slick surface dissipate out into the waves. She watches his face as he washes. He seems more sober, more present, and yet somehow impossibly far away in his own head.

 

“Ser Jaime? Would it not be better to go inside and wash your clothes properly?”

 

“You know, I hate weddings.”

 

She pauses. He gives her a glance. His eyes are dark and shallow like the pebbles beneath them.

 

“You said that I would likely be told to marry again. You told me I should do it for the sake of continuing my house. You’re right, but it will be a trial.”

 

She crouches down so she is at his level, and waits for him to continue.

 

“My older cousin broke my nose at the first wedding I remember attending. Of course, I was probably asking for it. I was a little shit back then.”

 

Brienne snorts, then regrets the indelicacy of the gesture when he is attempting to be vulnerable, but he looks at her with amusement in the quirk of his lips, and rolls his eyes.

 

“ _ More _ of a little shit than I am now. All I wanted to do was fight. I was so compelled to throw myself into an altercation, like I was constantly waiting for an opportunity to get hurt, or to hurt somebody else. So, he knocked me aside, and broke my nose for my trouble. I was sullen for a week.”

 

The thought of a little golden boy, scowling over the top of a bloody nose, makes her want to laugh and cry.

 

“Then there came the boring weddings that I was forced to sit through in my youth, with no desire to see the marriage and often very little idea who anyone was. They were merely tedious.”

 

He pulls his hand out of the water and uses his cloak to dry his arm off. He lifts his head to watch the horizon. She catches the flash of teeth between his lips.

 

“Then there was King Robert’s wedding, for which I was on duty, so I couldn’t even drink away the thought of what that beast would do to my sister after the plates were cleared away.”

 

He keeps his tone airy, and moves swiftly on. 

 

“And then there was my son’s wedding, at which he died right in front of me while the guests secretly celebrated behind my back.”

 

Brienne swallows. She doesn’t think he has ever referred to Joffrey as his son before. Jaime rolls his sleeves back down.

 

“He was a little shit as well. Quite possibly the vilest thing to sit on that damn chair, and that is up against strong competition. You were there, I’m sure you remember the sight of him choking, tearing at his own throat, pleading with Cersei to help him when he was far beyond help. He was awful to everyone, made me question everything about my family and my deeds, and yet I can still see his face that day. It is a sight I will never escape, and an ache that will never yield. You cannot help loving your children, regardless of who they turn out to be.”

 

A moment of silence passes, and Brienne runs her tongue around her mouth before she speaks.

 

“I don’t believe that.”

 

“What?”

 

“I believe many parents hold no love for their children; those that have disappointed them, those that are too different from them, or simply those they didn’t want.  _ You _ couldn’t help loving your children. That is different. It is not a quirk of nature, it is a fact of  _ yours _ .”

 

While he looks at her with an unreadable expression, she lowers herself slowly so she is sitting on the ground. After a moment’s hesitation, she unbuckles her scabbard and tosses her sword aside. 

 

“You see the good in everyone.” He says. 

 

“Only those in whom it is apparent.”

 

“I tried to kill a child once.”

 

“And then you saved millions.”

 

“You believe that justifies it?”

 

“You would do terrible things for those you love.”

 

“And how long exactly will you defend me?”

 

“As long as you are in need of defense.”

 

As he turns to look at her, she turns away. Her cheeks flare up red, and she hates herself for her weakness. 

 

_ To show weakness to him where once I hid it. To let go of what I once held so tightly. To see anew what I used to turn my eyes from. _

 

_ A new world indeed. _

 

“And I will defend you.” He says, his voice small and scared, delicate like glass, soft like eiderdown, true like an oath.

 

“Do I appear in need of defense?”

 

“You were once. From a bear, as I recall.”

 

“Ah yes, and you almost lost the other arm for it, if not worse.”

 

“Well, that shouldn’t surprise you.”

 

“You’re right. At this point, I should be used to your foolish recklessness.” She says, all too fondly, all too sweetly.

 

He’s looking at her now. His eyes catch hers like a barb on pelt. 

 

“Reckless? Yes. Foolish? Maybe. Not without cause, as you know.”

 

She’s heard this tone only three times before. Once, as they shared a bath and he pleaded with her not to call him ‘Kingslayer’, once when he strapped Oathkeeper to her and bid her farewell, and once when he told her to stand in a hall in Winterfell, after naming her Ser Brienne of Tarth.

 

_ Once you called me ugly, a wench, insulted me at every turn, took the sword from my hip and stared death in the face to be rid of me. Once, your jibes stopped as we sat tied together upon an enemy’s horse. Once, you lost the hand that built your identity to stop them violating me. Once, you jumped into a pit to stand between me and a bear. Once, you came North to keep your oath. Once, you dared to leave so much unsaid as we rode into the stomach of death. _

 

“...A…’cause’?”

 

“Aye. You are right. I do terrible, foolish things...”

 

The condition that isn’t voiced hits her like a lance to the breastplate. 

 

He’s looking at her like that again, like he’s been snagged on something on her face, the look that she doesn’t know what to do with. Except, this time, she’s seen it before. This time she feels a memory stir, of Cersei in his arms, bleeding, choking, dying, and him, looking at her like he looks at Brienne now, like he’s tripped over a crack in the road. 

 

_ Seven Hells, he thinks I’m beautiful… _

 

To release him would mean freedom. To reel him in would mean disaster.

 

Her whole life has been spent training her body to pick out weak spots, so that, with a glance, she knows where at his face to aim a blow to do the most damage, where to press on his fingers so they snap, which ribs to break to rip him up inside. She sees his soft spots, as she sees every man’s soft spots, like a target to hit. She sees his weakness as an opening to hurt, so that she may escape, with her honour, with her dignity, with her life. 

 

Maybe there is room in his weaknesses for her to fit herself. Perhaps he might fit into hers. She wonders how long it would take to unlearn how to strike, and learn how to touch.

 

She thinks of his body under hers, above hers, and she almost gasps with the wonderful, frightening pleasure of it. Although the image is sudden, she finds it is not actually new. It has been sitting under a thin layer of soil, and now she has accidentally unearthed it.

 

She holds his eye contact for even longer, and thinks of Colrin Buckler. It is getting colder; she sees him shiver.

 

_ If I keep waiting for him to do something, we will die before we get anywhere, _ she thinks.

 

So she sheathes her sword and bares her heart. He is close enough to kiss, so she kisses him; briefly, firmly to hide the fear, and hopes that he expects her to.

 

He didn’t, but somewhere between her mouth against his and her pulling away, he is kicked out of his mortal shock and into instinct. His real hand is wet and cold from the water when it touches her cheek. His lips are warm and trembling a little. Scared, uncertain, clinging to each other on the shore; it is not the grand gesture she knows from the songs, but it splits her open, and the sun stings against the inside of her.

 

To have him touch her like this, to feel the increasingly insistent press of his mouth, the slick surprise of his tongue, the desperate strength in his embrace, makes her unspeakably embarrassed and even more relieved. The barrier groans and snaps and he surges into the space between them, closing all gaps, wrapping her in his arms. She feels compressed, compacted, but not small, as if he were trying to fuse them together, as if they’ve spent so long standing separately he cannot bear it a minute longer. Her experience of kisses is severely limited, but the fear slips away like the tide receding, and as she worries that biting his bottom lip may not be the proper way of doing things, he groans against her mouth, hot and disbelieving, and bites her back.

 

The thrill takes her from the top of her head down her entire body, tasting victory, her head spinning, her lungs screaming for air. Years ago, the idea of being loved was so absurd that she almost forgot it was possible, that love on the overblown and extravagant scale of which people spoke was nothing more than a myth, and to think that now she’s kissing Jaime Lannister in the shadow of the castle his sister used to sit in is so ridiculous she would laugh if she had the mental capacity to be amused at this moment.

 

The laughter doesn’t come, not from him, not the way she even now anticipates. He doesn’t pull away and sneer, he doesn’t crumble under the weight of his pretense, there are no other boys waiting behind him to cheer him on for his bravery. He holds her like he’s sharing her warmth, not leeching her heat, and when he does laugh, it is a flutter of disbelief against her lips, to match the glitter in his eyes. She breathes out, and breathes in the new way of things, and laughs too.

 

\- - - 

 

She once heard a Northman say that when the King sleeps easy, his kingdom is in trouble. 

 

Despite being exhausted most of the time, Daenerys does not sleep well.

 

If the day to day running of Seven Kingdoms wasn’t enough to worry about, she has always been a light sleeper, be that in a tent in the Red Waste or locked away in the pyramid of Meereen. With her status and safety altering drastically from year to year, it is no surprise that she doesn’t like to let her guard down. 

 

She hadn’t slept a wink during her first night as a married woman, racked with pain and her stomach roiling with fear and despair. Now she is married again, to someone she cares for acutely and problematically, and yet on their wedding night she did not sleep either.

 

Jon had looked at her when they were finally alone in her chambers. He had blinked at her heavily in the low light. He had reached a hand to touch her cheek so gently she thought she’d break from it. He had sighed like an old man.

 

She had spared him.

 

It was so long since she’d been touched with love, with passion, and she ached for it from a man she’d once been driven mad by. But now, with his duty done and her promise kept, she released him from his obligations as a husband. Besides, she knew he was not that man anymore, and she wasn't sure she wanted him to be. Jon had been assigned his own chambers since her takeover, and she allowed him to return to them. He bid her farewell with a kiss against her forehead.

 

She supposes it is not necessarily a strange practice to assign the Queen and Prince Consort separate chambers, but she is loathe to start rumours so early into their marriage. When she had discussed it with him, he had agreed to spend a few nights a week in her bed. Whether or not he touched her was up to him.

 

When he is with her, she cannot sleep. Every movement she makes seems amplified by the tiny space between them, and she is irrationally terrified of disturbing him. She lies in the dark and stares and stares, then she turns over and it is his turn to stare at her. As a brother of the Night’s Watch, he has also developed an ability to sleep lightly, should he find himself in sudden danger. The awkward tension sits upon them so heavily that they emerge bleary-eyed and irritable the next morning after inadequate rest.

 

Tonight, he is in his own room, hopefully sleeping better without the embodiment of his love-turned-duty lying beside him, equally uncomfortable. She lies with her eyes closed for hours but it is no good. In a haze of heavy blackness that winter nights in King’s Landing always bring at this time, she finds herself longing for company, for protection, from someone other than Jon. She wonders if Ser Jorah is on duty. She wonders if he is nearby. She wonders if it would be strange, or awkward, or improper, for her to invite him in to ease her mind. 

 

All of a sudden the room seems too grand, too looming, too full of shadows and hard edges. She sinks rigid into the sheets, afraid like a child for some unknown reason, her chest constricting, her heart pounding, her eyes unfocusing as she forces them open. 

 

She longs for her children.

 

Her surroundings warp into something more menacing, shadows flicker across the walls and pool in the corners. Her curtains, heavy and still, become giant men standing tall and immobile, facing her. Her own blood rushing in her ears becomes incomprehensible whispering. All of her muscles tense.

 

A black shape becomes a figure, becomes a man, and it’s only when he moves to the foot of Daenerys’ bed does her mind process that he is real. The flood of panic takes her just in time, and she rolls out of bed and onto the floor just before the dagger pierces her mattress.

 

The room is so dark, but her eyes have adjusted. She ducks under her bed and slips out the other side when her pursuer attempts to grab her. She takes hold of a candlestick and calls for help, rushing towards the door as another knife is thrown and lands just inches from her head, embedding itself in the tapestry behind her.

 

She gets to the door just as the assailant is upon her. She slams the candlestick into his temple before his new blade can reach her throat, and then cries out as loudly as she can, voice cracking, heart pounding. 

 

Her door bursts open just in time. An Unsullied, Broken Tick, seizes the attacker by the scruff of his neck and throws him away from the Queen. His duty partner barrels into the room and they overpower him, pressing him into the floor, divesting him of his weapons, as Daenerys curls her legs to her chest, and catches her breath.

 

The commotion stirs others. A servant woman is panicking and runs to fetch a maester. Another two guards appear from their post to stand between Daenerys and the stranger. It takes only a few minutes before Ser Jorah is with her.

 

“ _ Khaleesi _ , are you alright?” He drops to his knees to inspect her for injury. He looks terrified. He is dressed, but without armour. She wonders what time it is.

 

He is still looking at her, and she realises he asked her a question. She nods, releasing her knees and accepting the hand he offers to stand upright. She is shaking in her nightgown.

 

“What happened?” He asks. His voice is loose from worry, but deliberately soft. 

 

“He...appeared from nowhere. He must have been hiding for a long time. He came at me. I hit him with that.” She indicates to her makeshift weapon, lying abandoned on the floor.

 

His hand is upon her upper arm, his grip firm as he observes the overpowered assailant with cold hatred. He speaks in rough Valyrian to the Unsullied guards, but she can barely hear him, her ebbing panic enclosing her in a bubble of confused reality. All she is certain of is the grip on her arm. She turns into his side, and although he tenses, he continues speaking with the guards as though he hasn’t noticed. As they carry the man out, he wraps his arm around her shoulders more firmly and pulls her close to his chest. She feels his sigh of relief which echoes her own.

 

“You’re alright.” It isn’t a question, and she’s not sure who the statement is for.

 

“Who was he? Did you recognise him?”

 

“No, but it’s too dark to get a proper look. I will go and question him as soon as I am sure you are well.”

 

She presses her face against his sternum and closes her eyes. Her blood has cooled, the panic has ebbed, and left only utter exhaustion in its wake.

 

“I am well, it was just a shock.”

 

“We will sweep your rooms every night from now on. This area of the castle is off limits to most. We will have to tighten our guard.”

 

She nods drowsily.

 

“I am sorry I was not here to protect you,  _ khaleesi. _ ” His voice is tight, angry, and consciously restrained. 

 

“You cannot always be on duty. It was unfortunate timing. I don’t blame you one bit.”

 

“It is my job to keep you safe.”

 

“It is your job to choose others to do so when you cannot. Besides, you have kept me safe.”

 

“You have kept yourself safe. Your quick thinking is admirable. He was bleeding from where you struck him.” Now he sounds proud. It makes her smile.

 

She feels more herself again, and the need to appear strong and queenly tugs at her. The thought of returning to her bed to face the shadows after one of them became solid fills her with dread.

 

She moves away from Jorah and picks up the candlestick. 

 

“He can stay in the cells until morning, when we shall question him. I must rest if I want to be of any use tomorrow. You will stay here and watch over me.”

 

She expects him to object, or at least question her line of thinking, but he doesn’t. He just folds his hands in front of him and bows his head.

 

“As you wish,  _ khaleesi _ .”

 

She feels vile in the clothes she was invaded in, so slips into her dressing chamber to change. When she returns, Ser Jorah sits in a chair by the balcony, his sword across his lap, facing away from the bed and towards the rest of the room. A deep wash of calm cascades over her as she climbs back into bed. She’s spent most of her adult life resting easier for Ser Jorah’s proximity, despite all of the uncomfortable intricacies of his servitude.

 

They don’t speak as she settles back into her bed. Perhaps she should be embarrassed to be a queen cowering like a child, ordering one of her most important generals to babysit her so she doesn’t have nightmares, but she doubts she could do anything that would make Jorah scoff. He isn’t looking at her, his eyes heavy but focused ahead of him, and yet she still feels quietly observed. After an hour or so of trying and failing to sleep, she realises what is strange. She doesn’t fear getting attacked again. She isn’t looking for protection of this sort.

 

“Are you tired, Ser Jorah?”

 

“No,  _ khaleesi _ .”

 

“Are you lying to me?”

 

He glances at her, and his smile is small and amused.

 

“It’s important that I stay alert.”

 

“Will you lie with me for a while?”

 

He looks like he thinks she is joking, but she must look more scared than she feels, because his eyes search her and he swallows.

 

“It’s quite alright,  _ khaleesi _ , I am happy to guard you from here.”

 

“I would have you closer. I’m still a little...shaken.”

 

“I could...fetch Jon, if you like?”

 

She shakes her head. The thought has stuck stubbornly in her head, and she will have her way. Without examining her intent too closely, she persists.

 

“I don’t wish to turn a request into an order.” She says, lying back down and turning to face away from him. For several long moments there is silence, before she hears him sigh, and stand from the chair.

 

There is something exquisite and pacifying in the dip of the mattress beside her. She holds her breath without really knowing why.  _ One...two...three...four… _

 

She turns to look at him. His jaw is set in a hard square of discomfort, his arms crossed tightly over his chest to take up as little room as possible, and he lies on top of the covers, staring at the ceiling. The sight almost makes her laugh.

 

“Thank you, ser.”

 

“I’ll be less prepared to protect you this way,  _ khaleesi _ .” His voice is wonderfully soft, a gentle growl that she is used to.

 

“It depends what you’re protecting me from.” She says, her eyelids heavy, her tongue warm and loose with rest calling.

 

He looks at her and softens further. She thinks she sees him relax.

 

This is awkward, but in a way that is not nearly as uncomfortable as sharing a bed with Jon. Perhaps it is the lack of practical romantic history between her and Jorah, perhaps because she doesn't know what he could do, what he might  _ want _ to do, in a bed with her as she had with Jon, so she isn’t thinking about it.

 

Well, she’s thinking about it  _ now _ …

 

She accepts the truth of the matter; she has been through so much with Jorah, slept in far more hostile locations, seen him at much lower places and in many other intimate lights, that this feels almost...natural; to have him protect her from her bed, to have him chase whatever paranoid horrors the night shrouds. In a new world that she isn’t quite used to yet and has every reason to mistrust, perhaps allowing him closer feels a bit more like home.

 

She feels heady and not quite herself. She is staring at him and he is watching her with concern and curiosity. She reaches out and strokes her fingertips through his beard. She brushes her thumb against his cheekbone and feels him sigh. The night must have lulled them both into a world where their relationship is uncomplicated, as right now they are both just happy to be near each other. She pulls his arm towards her so she can curl both of her hands around it, rest her chest against it, feel the weight of his presence as something tangible and, for now, permanent.

 

And there is that  _ thing  _ again, that tickle across her lungs, the object moving in her chest and making itself known. She wants to ask him more questions. She wants to laugh and cry. She wants to scream. She thinks, maybe, what she wants is to kiss him. 

 

She doesn’t remember falling asleep. She is only aware of waking after her first restful night in months, blinking in the gentle dawn, and seeing Ser Jorah sitting peacefully on the side of her bed, his hand near enough for her to touch, watching the sun rise.

  
  



	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Back with more unfortunate timings and plot, but also lots of pining and affection, so there's that. 
> 
> Next week you'll likely get a double-update, as Chapter 26 is wrapping up another plot line and was v much an indulgence chapter that most of you here for Dany/Jorah might want to skip, so you'll get 27 as well, as long as I'm finished with it. This time of year is super busy for me with exams and stuff, so I'll try and stay regular but I'm just warning you.
> 
> Hope you enjoy it! xx

“Well, he’s gone to a lot of trouble to disguise his accent.” Says Varys, blinking at the prisoner with a vague distaste.

 

“He isn't Northern.” Says Jon Snow.

 

“No, most Northmen have gone home.” Says Tyrion.

 

“A few of the men say they saw him talking with the nobles of Highgarden at the wedding feast. They think he was with them.” Says Ser Jorah grimly. He lets the implications of the claim settle over the assembled party.  _ War with Highgarden...that doesn’t bode well… _

 

“He isn’t from the Reach.” Says Ser Davos, drawing attention to his presence behind everyone. He looks like he’s come straight from bed, and in somewhat of a rush.  _ It is barely dawn _ , concedes Ser Jorah.

 

“People don’t notice me, and I make it my business to know everything. I know which ship he came on. He’s from Dorne.”

 

“Dorne?!” Tyrion turns to face him. “Are you certain of this, Seaworth?!”

 

“Aye, unfortunately I am.”

 

Tyrion looks to Varys, then back to the prisoner, seething and spitting on the floor.

 

“So...you are Dornish?”

 

The would-be assassin says nothing, as he has done for the last few hours.

 

“The princes that Ellaria brought with her, they are born into the Martell family. They have something to gain from killing the Queen. She is Ellaria’s ally and supports her claim as Princess of Dorne. Maybe they feel hard done by. Maybe this is the first stage of a Dornish takeover.” Says Ser Jorah.

 

“I can’t think of any other house stable enough to risk being attached to an assassination attempt.” Says Tyrion.

 

“Who else would want to incur the wrath of the crown on their own land? It’s to start a civil war, perhaps.” Varys says.

 

“We cannot take this to Dorne without being certain.” Ser Jorah levels his gaze at Ser Davos, who meets it.

 

“I’m certain. I don’t know if it was a random attack from this fella on his own, or something more sinister, but I take my job title quite seriously, and he arrived in their party.”

 

“That would give him access to the Red Keep. He would have been staying with Ellaria’s men.” Says Jon, staring hard at the prisoner.

 

“Excellent work, Ser Davos.” Tyrion pats the man’s arm since he cannot reach his shoulder.

 

“We need to tell the Queen.” Says Jon, turning to leave.

 

“The Queen is resting. Last night was quite traumatic for her, and she needs as much sleep as she can get. I’m sure you’ve all noticed that she’s been a little weary  recently.” Says Ser Jorah.

 

“I’ll send a raven to Ellaria.” Varys says as he rushes out in a blur of perfumed fabric.

 

“Wait until Daenerys is up before putting more weight on her. In the meantime, we need to be ready. This was an act of war against the crown. It will need to be dealt with.” Says Tyrion.

 

“I’ll take some men and make sure they’re ready to leave at short notice.” Says Ser Jorah.

 

“And what about him?” Jon indicates to the prisoner.

 

Tyrion looks at him distastefully. Ser Jorah’s posture becomes more rigid with controlled anger. 

 

“Execute him. He won’t tell us anything else.” Tyrion commands. Jon moves to grasp Longclaw's pommel, but Tyrion stops him.

 

“Get a goldcloak to do it. He doesn’t deserve the blade of a prince.”

 

\- - -

 

When Daenerys rises in the late morning, Jorah is glad to see she looks better rested than she has in weeks. A flash of pride makes him wonder if she felt safer with him there, but he quickly and curtly dismisses the thought. She was exhausted from the fight and the fear, more likely.

 

He briefs her on what they have discovered, and watches all of the weight that had briefly left her overnight slip back onto her shoulders.

 

“Definitely Dorne?”

 

“Ser Davos is certain that is where he hailed from. He said he arrived with the Dornish fleet.”

 

“And Ellaria?”

 

“No word yet. The raven will arrive this afternoon if we’re lucky. There’s no way of knowing if she’ll even get it. It may be intercepted. If it is a coup, she may already be dead.”

 

Daenerys nods. “No news is to be taken as bad news. We need men to leave for Dorne tomorrow morning if we hear nothing at all, as well as if she asks for our help.”

 

“I cannot leave for Bear Island now, you’re in too much danger.”

 

_ Good _ , she thinks, but just nods again. 

 

“I was going to volunteer to lead the men to Dorne.”

 

That surprises her. “But...why? You’re the Commander of my Queensguard.”

 

“I know the men now, they will need a leader they trust and who understands the gravity of the situation. I’m also in a high enough position to negotiate on your behalf if the conflict is political. I know your intentions and interests, and I’d like to think you’d trust me.”

 

There is no rule to say the Lord Commander cannot leave King’s Landing on an mission, and she isn’t sure who else she trusts with this. It is too delicate for a man she does not know properly, and Grey Worm does not speak the Common Tongue well enough to negotiate with the Martells.

 

“I am not happy about this, Jorah.”

 

“It needs to be done,  _ khaleesi _ .” He sighs. His eyes are soft.

 

It does need to be done. This is more important than keeping him here so she can sleep at night.

 

“I will go with all haste, and return once it is done.”

 

\- - - 

 

The raven arrives in the night. It brings them the news they were dreading; Ellaria has shut herself in her palace to avoid the onslaught of rebels backing Cryus and Efran. She appeals to the Crown for help, and Ser Jorah is armed and mounted before Daenerys can think of another reason to keep him in the Keep. 

 

“Take as many men as you need. Find Ellaria and reinstate her. Kill as many people as would swear to the two princes.”

 

_ What if they are just trying to reclaim their home? What if they are better leaders, and better loved men than Ellaria? What if I anger Dorne by sending my forces in to hand the land back to an ally of mine, rather than a good ruler? _

 

Ellaria was her ally, her  _ friend _ , and she  _ knows _ her to be well-respected in her homeland. She doesn’t have time to debate the little intricacies when these two usurpers came for her life. 

 

“Please,  _ please _ , take care of yourself. I cannot lose you again.”

 

“I will be fine, _ khaleesi _ , I am prepared, supported, and stronger than I have been in years. I’ve faced much worse odds and come out with my life.” 

 

She knows this, but the reassurance almost isn’t enough. He is ripping himself from her rather than slipping through her fingers as he has in the past. She wonders what ever possessed her to insist he return North.

 

His smile is easy, but he sees her genuine concern, and grows serious.

 

“My Queen, I will take your kingdom back, save your friend, and kill the men that wanted you harmed. This is my duty. I shall do this, and then be back at your side before you know it.”

 

She sighs. She is sick of goodbyes. She is sick of drinking in his face in case she never sees him again. She needs him to go before she orders him to stay.

 

He wraps his hand around her arm. He touches her without her asking him to. To avoid people seeing the tears pooling in her eyes, she pushes herself onto her toes and presses a kiss to his cheek, as she had before walking onto Drogo’s pyre. 

 

That is something that is done. For a queen to kiss her knight’s cheek is acceptable. It is chivalrous, and appropriately affectionate. She does not deserve the hard look Tyrion drags over the two of them as she steps away and Jorah rearranges his face into something less bewildered and warm. 

 

And then he is gone, and she must adapt to life without him, like before, and reassure herself that it is only for a little while.

 

\- - - 

 

Grasson Harlaw is in his party, he is surprised to discover. The man is as eager as ever to speak with Jorah, despite the fact that he has been put in charge of a sizeable force, a small army really, and has no time to exchange small talk with an ironborn man who seems determined to become his friend.

 

The ride is long and not without difficulty. A fight breaks out amongst the men three leagues out of Ashford and it sets them back several days as Jorah and his corporals discipline those responsible. The weather is ferocious, and one man dies when his horse slips on Prince’s Pass. His concern and sense of duty, as well as a profound desire to find the man responsible for threatening Daenerys, make his will unshakeable, but the men have a less personal stake in the matter, and as they are battered by blizzards and ride through short, dark days, morale drops dangerously low. 

 

A raven comes from Varys after a week or so. There has been no more word from Ellaria. Jorah sets off once more, a deeper seed of dread taking root in his stomach. He hopes he is not leading his men into a war they cannot win.

 

The weather gets warmer as they approach Dorne. They encounter a hostile group in Sandstone who are small in numbers, but fast and deadly. They defeat them, but not without losing a few men. They are not welcome here, it seems, and a party of a hundred or so from the capital does not go unnoticed, but they don’t encounter a Dorish army at all. By the time they reach Sunspear, Jorah doesn’t know what to expect.

 

They are received by an escort who seem to be anticipating them. Jorah is surprised by the few men that meet them outside the capital; not enough for an army, too many for an ambush. It is...like a welcome party. He is more unnerved than before. Sitting astride a beautiful mare at the forefront of the group is a man Jorah recognises from the wedding; Efran, the younger of the two Dornish princes. He has a cruel smile on his face when he removes his helmet in greeting.

 

“Ser Jorah of House Mormont. Lord of House Mormont if I am not mistaken. Not that I’ve ever been to your island myself.” It is a subtle jab, but Jorah catches it.

 

“We come here in peace. We seek a meeting with your princess.”

 

“You do not look like you come in peace.” He gives Jorah’s armour a long look, and then shifts his eyes to the hundred gleaming breastplates behind him.

 

“A precautionary measure, I assure you.”

 

“I cannot take you to the princess. She is...otherwise engaged. I can take you to my brother, however. He might speak words to you that you prefer…”

 

The man talks with a melodic, somewhat hypnotic voice. Ser Jorah knows his game. He has been told of Oberyn’s offspring and their snake-like abilities, and is equally wary of this man, who smiles and kneels openly at Daenerys’ court and yet were still expecting her forces to arrive; a sure sign that he is guilty of something, perhaps something such as sending an assassin into her bedchamber.

 

The Dornish are intelligent. Daenerys’ position is still new, the battle wounds of her army still fresh, and she wants to avoid further conflict; she’d told Jorah as much. The princes have attempted a takeover, they have taken Ellaria captive and although they have tried to kill the Queen, now they would bargain with her men. The only reason they would not meet Jorah with an army is that they believe they can invite him into their palace, talk him round to their way of thinking, and let him leave believing it to be beneficial to Daenerys that they rule over Dorne. And, if he doesn’t cooperate, they will slit his throat and watch his forces scatter without a leader. They assume he hasn’t been involved in intricate politics such as this since he left for Essos. 

 

_ They should have brought an army, _ he thinks.

 

The Dornish prince rides right up to him, his men tense behind him, and Jorah hears the chime of Grasson Harlaw’s armour as he sits more upright in his seemingly permanent position over his left shoulder. Efran extends a hand. Jorah shakes it, feels the power in the young man’s arm, but know it is outstripped by his own, especially after his resurrection.

 

Efran’s smile is back. Jorah is more cynical than ever, suspecting everyone of ulterior motives, but even he feels a little daunted at the prospect of negotiating with Dornishmen. They are slippery, quick-tongued and charming, and he is none of those things.

 

Efran’s eyes are dark and bright. This will not be easy. He feels as if the man already knows all of his weaknesses. 

 

Jorah thinks, once more on this journey, of Daenerys. He thinks of her infallible strength, her unwavering conscience, her loyalty to her friends and her terrifying revenge streak. He thinks about the formidable woman who became a just and righteous queen, whom he loves more and more as the days pass, even if he once thought he was full to capacity of it. He thinks of how he will do anything for her, if she asks, if he knows it will be the best for her, including riding unprepared into enemy territory because he doesn’t trust anybody else with her wishes. He thinks of his duty, to his Queen and to him homeland, which he is now solely responsible for. He thinks of returning to Bear Island with equal parts longing and pain. 

 

_ Thoughts for another time. _

 

His heart settles neatly and comfortably on Daenerys, where it lies most naturally and lightly, knowing that this image will carry him through anything, and with newfound certainty that he will not fail, he nods his acquiescence and follows Efran’s party towards the palace. 

 

\- - - 

 

The following few weeks are worse than Daenerys thought it would be.

 

She hasn’t been apart from her knight for this long since his banishment, and so accustomed has she grown to his reassuring presence that she is anxious and tense without fully knowing why. She thought it was concern for her own safety, an insidious and absurd fear that she is at her most secure when he is there to protect her, but soon it occurs to her that it isn’t her own life she is worried about.

 

_ Anything could happen to him. He is at the other end of the continent, with strangers known for their temper and penchant for killing. He could be dead already and I wouldn’t know. I cannot aid him. I am helpless. _

 

She must trust him. That’s what keeps the worst of the anxiety at bay. She put her faith in him and that makes him strong: as he returned to her side in Qarth after her dragons were taken, as he beat terrifying odds and returned to her after the sacking of Yunkai, as he won two rounds in the fighting pits for a chance to return to her once more, as he battled greyscale to return to her, as he fought his way out of the final grips of death to return to her. He will not be beaten so easily. He will return once more. She must believe this. 

 

They hear nothing. The raven from Ellaria, full of terrified words written in with a shaking hand that had only just got used to freedom and dignity, was the only one of its kind. They hear no more, not even from her own forces. Daenerys' orders were to rescue Ellaria and reinstate her with minimal damage and loss of life, but that is easier said than done, and she doesn’t think the princes would give up Dorne without a fight. She was panicked and stupid. She should have sent more men. What’s a hundred to an army? What if everyone in Dorne is on the princes' side now? What then? What would her troops face then?

 

After two weeks her sleeping has grown worse once more and she gives Tyrion more and more responsibility as she finds her mind slipping dangerously. The paranoia grows. She cannot have Dorne in open rebellion; what’s to stop the North following their example? What does the largest of the Seven Kingdoms care for one bastard hostage when Sansa Stark is there to unite them in common hatred of Daenerys? If she loses Dorne, she loses her unquestioned grip on the whole Seven Kingdoms. 

 

Tyrion is understanding, but not without suspicion. He has been keeping more of his own concerns to himself lately, and as much as Daenerys is grateful to have him talking less for once, this ultimately worries her more. Will he stop trusting her too? Will she have to live the rest of her life under this constant scrutiny as those around her, who she is supposed to rely upon, watch her face for any tick of madness, any quiver of her father, any sound of a coin dropping?

 

It is anxiety feeding anxiety, she knows, but still it is difficult to focus on one thing when her mind is stretched to each corner of the Seven Kingdoms, severed between too many different causes, and unable to turn itself off at night.

 

She appoints a new lord of Highgarden; a Redwyne knight from a close branch of the Tyrell family. He meets her with his brother and sister, all lacking the beauty, grace and wit of the previous leigelords, but with enough grit and quiet kindness to placate her into believing they will rule well enough, even if they do not reach the heights of the Tyrells. Tryion assures her the Reach is mostly onboard with her decision, although she’d do well to keep an eye on any family with ideas above their station.

 

Daenerys thinks about breaking the wheel. She thinks perhaps, if what Tyrion says is true, she has merely stopped the wheel and then started it spinning again in the other direction.

 

Her eyes blister as the ground rushes miles beneath her. Drogon has been as restless as her in recent days, looming over small settlements like the shadow of a storm, drifting across the Narrow Sea to terrify Essos, screeching on the cliffs of Blackwater Bay deep into the night. Rhaegal is sulking, as is his wont when he doesn’t get enough attention, but Daenerys knows he will survive the cold weather. Drogon needs stimulation, and she needs to take her mind off things.

 

She rides him every day now. As the light drops below the horizon and her fingers are numb with the cold, she finds him banking, climbing, moving with purpose for once, and it takes her a moment to realise he is heading south.

 

_ No! _

Flying her largest dragon over Dorne would start a war, and if Jorah is alive she could turn him from a diplomatic guest into a hostage. Drogon drops his jaw in a cry of frustration as she wheels him around. They cannot be seen anywhere near Dorne’s borders. She flattens herself against his scales, cold and hard as rock but she feels the rewarding power of her child beneath, and it feels like peace, for a moment. Her dragons have always been an extension of herself. If Drogon is irritated or restless, it’s because she is. If Drogon is troubled, it is her troubles that plague him. If Drogon wants to head south, it is Daenerys’ desire that drives him there.

 

As she lands and bids him goodnight, resigning herself to another troubled rest, she thinks she may actually go mad if she doesn’t hear something soon.

 

_ I am barely myself. I am perhaps losing my mind. My reign will suffer. I don’t know anything about Dorne or Ser Jorah. I must do something before the damage is irreversible _ .

 

She will send more forces, her dragons if necessary, if there is silence for another day.

 

The next morning, tired and frustrated, scared and unsure, she leaves her chambers with her hair still unbraided to talk Tyrion into letting her fly to Dorne. She is met outside of her chambers by two guards, escorting a messenger. He is red in the face. He is out of breath.

 

“Word, your grace. From Dorne.”

 

Her heart in her throat, she nods mutely, and the guards step aside so she faces the rider.

 

“Prince Cryus is dead. Prince Efran has bent the knee to Ellaria, who has been reinstated. There was a fight to the death,  a trial by combat of sorts, won by Ser Jorah of House Mormont. All major houses declared themselves for the Princess of Dorne, and for House Targaryen.”

 

Relief seems too weak a word to describe the wave that crashes over Daenerys in that moment. She stands, half-dressed and trembling, a hand supporting her against her door frame, breathing easily for the first time in weeks. She fights back a manic, overjoyed grin and thanks the three men, holding herself back from embracing them simply for bringing her the news she so wanted to hear.

 

“Are they on their way back?”

 

“Aye, your grace.”

 

“Ser Jorah among them?”

 

“It was he who dictated the letter, your grace, so I’d wager yes.”

 

_ He’s alright. Stop being ridiculous, you knew he would be alright _ .

 

“Thank you for delivering this message. You may go.”

 

They bow, they leave, and she slams the door of her bedchamber behind her, takes a breath of cold, clear air and closes her eyes briefly. She lets a smile crack and splinter the cold face of exhausted worry that she has worn for weeks, and moves to dress appropriately for the morning's Small Council meeting. 

  
  



	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right so I have been messing around with this chapter and the next chapter because I couldn't decide which to publish first, but I can't write quickly enough to publish two in one week, so you get this one first. I have the story mapped out in sporadic bits that are timeline-specific, but I'e caught up to myself in fully-written chapters, so I'm sorry that I promised you two this week and I cant deliver. I hope this one makes up for it.
> 
> Also thank you to my new readers! I see a few people have just come across my little story, so welcome, and I hope you enjoy!
> 
> This chapter was a nightmare, but ultimately was fun to write. See you next week xx

“I have run out of titles to bestow upon you, ser.”

 

“I need no more. It was always an extravagance,  _ khaleesi _ .”

 

_ I’ll serve you regardless of what you call me _ .

 

When he arrived back at the capital that morning she allowed him all the time it took to wash and change, and then called for his presence in her chambers, feeling very little guilt in stealing away any time he may have used to settle back in.

 

When they met, she held herself back from embracing him. She would give him personal praise in due course, but he was a war hero, and she would see to her royal duties first. She allowed him to kiss her hand, standing in dark satin without his armor, looking rather charming and remarkably invigorated considering the journey he has undertaken.

 

He negotiated a bloodless takeover using only his wit and knowledge of Daenerys’ wishes. He played on his lack of Westerosi reputation to lull the elder brother into a false sense of security, pretending to be stupid, pretending to be congenial, and then, when Cryus smugly agreed to fight to the death for Dorne, Jorah killed him clamly and efficiently. The younger brother was too terrified or too dull to think up a solution quickly enough, and Ser Jorah’s forces were enough to keep any armed fanatics at bay when they freed Ellaria. It seems as if the people of Dorne are not particularly bothered who rules them, as long as they side with the noble with the strongest claim and largest army.

 

He left successful and tired, several dozen men down from calming the discontent, but ultimately relieved at having achieved what they set out to do.

 

And now he stands here, formally, a knight before his queen, to receive his royal reward; a formality he thinks ridiculous at this point, but Daenerys seems keen to stick to tradition. 

 

“You serve me faultlessly, with courage, honour and wisdom. I, as your queen, must reward you. I  _ should _ reward you. I  _ wish _ to reward my most loyal. You have not failed me, and I don’t think you ever will. I want to honour you, ser.”

 

He bows his head. He is bashful, and she feels a rush of power and affection. He is still here, living, and she has all seven kingdoms once more. What a wonderful thing it is to have someone to depend upon completely, and to have these moments, these spaces to breathe and smile.

 

“You honour me every day,  _ khaleesi _ .”

 

“How so?”

 

“With your rule, your justice, and…”  _ Is he embarrassed? _ “...And your favour.”

 

“You fight for my favour?”

 

“I fight on your command, for the crown and the realm.”

 

She smirks. He bows his head once more. Whenever she praises him, he avoids eye contact, and is suddenly more submissive. He is awkward in the face of his own glory. 

 

_ Oh, how she’s missed him.  _

 

“So you would not have my favour?”

 

She plays along. He looks resolutely downwards, but is smiling a little.

 

“It is an honour, as always, your grace.”

 

“Is that a yes?”

 

His cheeks tinge a deeper shade of pink. “Yes,  _ khaleesi _ . If that is your wish.”

 

She leans against her desk, watching him for any tick that might betray his deeper feelings, but finds none.

 

“It is my wish. I wish to favour my knight, after he has done such good for me, and fought so bravely, and yet I cannot. As I said, there is nothing left for me to give him.”

 

He chuckles breathily. The sound strikes her softly, like a breeze on a stifling, still day.

 

“Your favour is enough,  _ khaleesi _ .” He says, and his tone is final, as if they are finished. He looks as if he is ready to leave.

 

“Then you shall have my favour.”

 

His brow furrows.  _ He knows he already has it _ .

 

“Will you take a kiss?”

 

She suggests it as if she is offering him a new breastplate. He is finally flustered, stumbling over his words.

 

“Excuse me,  _ khaleesi _ ?”

 

“Forgive me, it is customary in Westeros, is it not? It is in stories at least. At a tourney, a lady’s kiss is a favour, given as a prize, a badge of honour to her champion.” She recites what she has learnt from the books he once gifted her. He still will not meet her eye.

 

“There is no need, I assure you. I do as I am bid. What sort of man does his duty for the sake of reward?”

 

“Every man?” She offers, and sees him smirk again.

 

“So is that a no? You will not accept your queen’s favour?”

 

“I accept what the Queen offers, always.” He says, infuriatingly evenly.

 

“Good. Then there is no reason to insult her by refusing her gesture.”

 

He looks at her then. For a moment, she sees  _ pleading _ in his expression, but only a flash of it.

 

_ Show me mercy, khaleesi, for all I have done for you… _

 

She is done with pragmatism, and putting others first. She will be selfish now. He fears what he wants, but he deserves a taste of it at least.

 

“As you wish.” He says.

 

She smiles warmly, and approaches him, bracing her hands on his shoulders so she can stretch upwards to reach his lips, pausing for a mere moment, a hair's breadth away, to savour the sweet tension rolling off him in waves, to appreciate that they in all their years of complicated friendship have never done this before.

 

The kiss is an exchange of affection, a simple reward, which she presses against his mouth with the assurance of someone who was not expecting to feel anything drastic in the gesture. On his part, he is reliably stoic. He does not sweep her into his arms, nor does he pull back as if branded. As always, he endures it, politely and honourably, for her sake.

 

When they part after a few seconds of dry, almost familial contact, he looks at the ground once more in an attempt to hide the glitter in his eyes. She catches it nevertheless. Painful hunger that he never usually lets show is forced to the surface, and she must now confront it. Something catches in her chest as she tries to breathe it out.

 

Is there any torture sweeter, more acute, than  _ longing _ ?

 

“Thank you, your grace. As I said, I do everything for-”

 

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence. A dragon is all fire, a  _ khaleesi _ is impulsive, and she is true to her nature. She reaches up, her palms against his stubbled cheeks, and pulls him back down to her.

 

She finds his lips yielding and familiar, as if she already knows their shape, and the contact wipes its predecessor from memory. She infuses the kiss with new warmth, with understanding, with gratitude and emotion she keeps under wraps. She kisses him properly, deeply, tilting her head so she can coax his lips apart and meet his tongue with her own, pressing her body against him so he has little choice but to hold her there lest she lose her balance. His shock tastes like wine, heady and dizzying in the sense of power it gives her.

 

The gesture quickly loses its initial elegance, her lips demanding, the voice of reason in her head retreating as she surrenders to a sensation long-denied. She is the Queen, a successful conqueror, in her chambers, in her castle, and she’s  _ kissing Ser Jorah _ as if she’s been thinking about it for years and only now does her heart shudder with a sigh of  _ ‘finally _ ’. She hears, no  _ feels _ , his breath catch in his chest, and a strangled sound lodge somewhere in his throat.

 

It is new, thrilling, so unexpected and yet so inevitable. When she pauses for a moment to catch her breath she sighs into the minute space between them before she can think to stop herself. As she waits there in the opening, eager but needing reassurance, he provides it by taking a terrifyingly presumptuous step, giddy on the adrenaline of it all, and gently taking her top lip between his own. She gasps a little, a short intake of breath in shock she hadn't prepared for, and with a lurch of dread and exhilaration he is kissing her, and she is kissing him.

 

She feels swept upwards, jolted into a terrifying expanse of sky, as if Drogon had launched himself into flight without warning, and yet, the sky is where she belongs. There is an addictive serendipity in this feeling, like she’s done it before, like she must do it again…

 

_ Let him dream. Let him realise a fantasy long held. Let him see that I need him as much as he needs me. Let him see he is not a fool for offering me his heart. _

 

She had meant it to be a way of stoking the fires of passion within him, but hadn’t anticipated it doing the same to her. The more she kisses him, the closer she presses herself, the deeper into him she explores, the more the ache grows. She gives more and yet still wants more. She reaches down to grasp his arm, resting respectfully on her waist, and moves it round her hips so it’s against the small of her back. He takes the hint, and pulls her closer.

 

Closer still isn’t close enough. Her hips jump seemingly of their own accord, press against his, and she swears the sound he stifles counts as a growl.

 

She moves backwards, moves  _ away _ , but does not release him from her hold. Instead, she pulls him with her, reversing a few paces, until her backside hits the edge of the table and he gets the message.

 

With barely any effort at all, he lifts her onto the desk’s surface. She hums her approval against his mouth as she kisses him again, and  _ gods _ it’s been too long. Too long since someone touched her like this. Too long since she’s felt like a woman, like a human, not a queen. Of flesh, not of fire.

 

_ Closer. Closer. You mustn’t presume to touch your queen, but please, please touch your queen. If I am not touched I shall fade away. _

 

_ Oh and he knows me, he trusts me, and I trust him.  _ She almost weeps from the honesty of it all. She has nothing to gain and neither does he. This is an action that is all passion and no politics. It is a concept as thrilling as it is frightening. 

 

She is barely thinking, barely coherent, her mind a mess of warm touches and pliant tongues and new,  _ fascinating _ possibilities. She thinks of how Jon Snow kissed her with the desperate fervour of a boy trying to prove himself. Ser Jorah kisses her like he already knows what she wants, like he’s done it a thousand times, and yet she still feels his relief, his disbelief, his _euphoria_ , his passion…

 

The skirt of her gown has ridden up. His hand is on her thigh; gently, lightly, a mere hint of a touch, a question, a  _ promise _ …

 

As she reaches for the waistband of his breeches, to pull him closer or to undo them she doesn’t quite know, the telltale creak of the door opening draws her attention. In an instant he is gone from her embrace, straightening his posture and clearing his throat, as she slips off the desk and tugs her dress back into place.

 

Her Dothraki guard’s voice comes from where he is stationed at the door, out of view.

 

“Tyrion.” He says, gruffly.

 

“Send him in.” Says Daenerys, embarrassed at how unsteady her voice is. 

 

Tyrion, ever confident, strides in as if it were his sister’s chamber.

 

“Our glorious leader!” He says brightly, and then falters, clearly not expecting her to have company. “And the lord of House Mormont. What an unexpected pleasure.”

 

“Ser Jorah won a great victory. You didn’t expect me to want to see him?” Daenerys keeps her tone light. Ser Jorah remembers himself and bows his head to Tyrion.

 

“Lord Tyrion.”

 

“Of course, how foolish of me to forget the hero of the hour.” He says, and Daenerys can see his little eyes flicking between them, taking in her breath coming quicker, Ser Jorah’s strange, insular expression of confusion, the blush not quite gone from his cheekbones. 

 

“It is good to see you still upright, Mormont. I hear we owe you Dorne.”

 

“You owe Dorne to a great number of brave soldiers under my command.”

 

“Yes, I shall make sure to seek them out and prostrate myself at their feet. It isn’t a very long way down.”

 

An awkward silence leaks into the room. Daenerys presses her lips together in what she hopes is a show of disapproval at his ill-timed joke. She swallows round the compact pressure of her heart in her throat.

 

“You have need of me, Lord Tyrion?”

 

“Yes, your grace. Why else would I be here? You don’t normally accept conjugal visits in your private chambers.” There is that tone again; the subtle, masterful rough edge of accusation hidden below the pillow of propriety. He doesn’t look at Jorah, but she suspects he wants to.

 

“It is on the subject of appointing the new Grand Maester. I believe I have arrived at a suitable solution. You were absent from the Small Council meeting this morning, but I was informed that it was to greet Ser Jorah and so knew there was no need to worry.”

 

“Of course. I will join you in the council chamber soon, once I have finished with Ser Jorah.” She says stoically. She almost smirks at the subdued and brief flash of alarm that she catches crossing the knight's face.

 

“Surely Ser Jorah can wait? He’d likely enjoy a sit down and some food. The quicker this is done, the better.” Says Tyrion, in a voice he thinks is diplomatic, but Daenerys knows now to be one step short of an argument.

 

“It is my wish to-”

 

“It’s quite alright, your grace.” Ser Jorah bows his head. “It can wait. I have other duties, as you do. As much as I value your praise,Tyrion’s presence seems to demand attention more urgently.”

 

Tyrion looks at him for a little while longer, eyes slightly narrowed, eyebrows quirked, but then smiles and nods.

 

“Thank you, Ser Jorah, and thank you for your heroic actions in Dorne. I may come across as disingenuous, but I really am very impressed; a man of politics as well as combat must be admired.” 

 

Ser Jorah bows to him graciously before turning to offer the same courtesy to the Queen. The look in his eyes is too intricate and bright to untangle, and she is scared before she realises it is probably reflected back at him in her own eyes. 

 

“I will call for you later, ser.” She says, too gently, far _far_ too gently. He clears his throat and leaves without saying anything else.

 

Tyrion watches her watching him leave.

 

She feels thrown suddenly into a headspace she wasn’t expecting, a sudden change of temperature as her heart slows and her skin stops fizzing. Tyrion may prove a decent distraction from the confused shouting in her head. She waits for him to explain to her what he is thinking.

 

“You seem quite happy to have Ser Jorah back, your grace.”

 

“I am. Of course I am.” Her voice comes out even, for which she is grateful. She meets his eyes openly. She has nothing to hide. Nothing that is any of his business anyway…

 

He nods, not looking entirely content with her repy, but moves on brusquely. 

 

“Maester Darrik seems the most appropriate man for the position. He was highly respected before the takeover and successfully saved you from a stab wound. I’m not letting another Pycelle squirm his way into the Small Council, so, with your permission, I would offer Darrik the role on a trial basis. If he is useful and doesn’t presume too much, we can keep him. If he pokes his nose in too far, we can search for another.”

 

“That all sounds reasonable. Thank you for taking this task seriously.” 

 

“It’s my job, your grace, and an important one. I have a few more smaller matters that require your attention.”

 

They sit out on Daenerys’ balcony, wrapped in furs as the winter sun bathes their faces in cold light, all the while threatening at best rain, at worst snow. Tyrion talks and talks, and she gives her permission or an opinion when necessary. He thrives under the weight of responsibility, gleefully swigging from a goblet of wine as he explains the intricacies of the current political climate, and Daenerys tries to follow, but she isn’t sure she would have been able to even without her mind elsewhere entirely. 

 

He catches her drifting back into a daydream, his sentence trailing off as he notices he has lost his audience.

 

_What was I thinking? What madness overcame me? Why did I do such a thing, when I knew the consequences exactly?!_

 

She thinks of Ser Jorah, bold and important, stable and stoic, and coloured anew from what occured before her Hand arrived. She runs over the last almost-decade in her head, every interaction from her first wedding to the Battle of Winterfell. She thinks of losing herself, losing her grip on her power and her conscience, slipping into tyranny and political blindness when Ser Jorah was gone. She thinks of how having him near brings her peace, and makes the screaming in the back of her head distant and dim. She thinks of every touch and look and word shared since they met. She thinks of the exact, awkward, painful, infuriating moment when she realised he was in love with her. She remembers the empty agony of thinking he was dead. 

 

Tyrion clears his throat and startles her back into the present. 

 

“Since you seem preoccupied this afternoon perhaps I should speak with you on a matter for which you may have more interest.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“Now that Ser Jorah has returned from Dorne, he should travel north as he planned to, before the assassination attempt.”

 

“What?! Why?”

 

“It was his intention to return to Bear Island and secure it for his house, and by extension, declare it for you and the Crown. He has not done that yet, and it would be a valuable asset to have in the North; a house stable and loyal to a Targaryen queen.”

 

“He has just returned. I need him here, that much is evident.”

 

“I know you value his presence, but this is his duty. It is more important that he makes the journey. He is a glorified bodyguard here. He is a lord in the North.”

 

“He is  _ not _ a glorified bodyguard. The stability of the Realm rests upon _my own_ stability and safety. He is invaluable; he gives wise council, he is a seasoned general, a Northern representative in court and indisputably loyal to me. I need him here. He has been gone from me for too long already.”

 

The last sentence was clearly the wrong thing to say. Tyrion’s brow lowers down over his quick eyes and his jaw sets grimly, defiantly.

 

“Then you are not going to like what I say next. I believe, when he goes north, he should remain there indefinitely.”

 

The bottom drops from her stomach. She hopes she doesn’t visibly blanche.

 

“You’d have him leave... _ permanently _ ?”

 

“Aye, I would.”

 

“Have you lost your mind?”

 

“I have rather gained it. He is the lord of Bear Island. His place is there, with his people, holding the northernmost reaches of the kingdom securely under your rule, and marrying to continue House Mormont.”

 

“I obviously will not sanction this. His  _ place _ is where he chooses it to be. He has chosen. It is here with me and everyone else with an important role in my rule.”

 

“I know it will be difficult, your grace, but I have another reason for encouraging him to go home.”

 

“And what is that?” She stands from her seat, her arms crossed, her lips pressed together in a furious line. Frustration and fear tug at her face. 

 

“You are newly married. Whether or not you and Jon have an heir is beside the point, but you are still  _ married _ . It would be a great insult to many if you were thought to be unfaithful.”

 

She feels as if she is balanced precariously at the top of a monumental precipice, shaking from the effort of staying steady, as an endless sea of faces watch in anticipation from below. A single wrong move, a lack of strength, a fault in discipline, or an ill-timed twitch will send her falling, and there will be more witnesses than she can imagine.

 

“ _ Unfaithful… _ ?”

 

“Yes. It is no business of most, and I know you well enough to know that there is no greater secret behind it, but if word gets out that you sleep alongside your Lord Commander instead of your husband, there will be no controlling the rumour.”

 

_ She is so tired. _

 

“Ser Jorah guards me. He is my oldest friend, and someone I trust unquestionably. Only a fool would mistake his protection and servitude for something else.” She speaks the words with conviction, and only once they have left her lips does she realise they are lies.

 

“You don’t need to convince me,  _ khaleesi _ . I know the nature of your friendship. The public is fickle, they will latch onto an idea that they like, an idea that makes you seem fallible, and will spread it until it is thought of as fact. An idea cannot be killed. It is the most dangerous thing in the world. The only way to fight it is to stop it ever touching the soil.”

 

She bristles at the way he speaks her Dothraki title, mimicking the name she has come to associate with her proudest conquests, her lowest moments, and, most prevalently in this case, Ser Jorah. His arrogance is so irritating she almost tells him that he is wrong, just to see the look on his face. Her desire to knock him off his pedestal almost causes her to spill what just happened before his ill-timed entrance.

 

It seems ugly to her, absurd, even, that her people, whom she loves enough to give up her freedom to govern them, should discuss what happens between their Queen and her intimate friends within the Keep. To think of them speculating about her and Jon, when the distance between them as they lie side by side in bed seems so much greater than that of her and the inhabitants of the city below, is ridiculous. To imagine them imagining her and Ser Jorah is worse; people who don’t know either of them conjuring something as soft and subtle as a warm look, a hand on her waist to help her off her horse, a word kinder than it ought to be, turning into heat, turning into fire, turning into pulling off his armor, tugging at her gowns, pressing her into a mattress, biting baseless, possessive marks onto her throat, taking her as he cannot, having him as she should not, is almost impossible to imagine.

 

She shakes herself from the reverie. She feels like she wants to be alone all of a sudden.

 

“I won’t send Ser Jorah north. If he wishes to go, that is his decision, but I won’t cast him out because of fear of a few whispers, which I’m not sure would start in the first place, and which ultimately are baseless. I will not lose him to a hypothetical, Lord Tryion.”

 

“A war started because people were discontent; because a rumour spread that the heir to the kingdom was not the king’s son, because people thought the Queen was lying with the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. It is not an unreasonable precaution.”

 

“In the case of your siblings, it was true. There will be no evidence, no reason to suspect, and no one to start the whispers, since there is no basis of what you are suggesting.”

 

“I know, but I think it is always worth erring on the side of caution, your grace.”

 

“I respect your opinion, and I deny your request. He stays here, to protect and advise me, as he always has. If any of these ridiculous stories start tugging your ear, be sure to silence them. That is your job, isn’t it? If not, Varys should see to it.”

 

Tyrion sighs. He sees, as he has before when they butt heads, that she will not let him win this one. He nods, and the dip of his head becomes a bow.

 

“Very well, your grace. Just, heed my warning, and keep an eye out.”

 

“I will. I do.”

 

“Then, I shall see you later. I will inform Maester Darrik of your decision immediately. And I think Ser Jorah has earned a drink.”

 

“Thank you, Lord Tyrion.”

 

As he leaves, he gives her that  _ look _ again, the one she doesn’t like, that suggests he is viewing her from a different angle to better see under her skin. It means he is perhaps suspicious that she is hiding something, and Daenerys feels unsure as to whether or not he is right.

 

She shuts the door to her chambers behind her and takes a deep breath in. This morning has been... _tumultuous_. She will need to arrange her emotions and priorities appropriately if she is to meet Ser Jorah in the presence of others that evening.

 

But a Targaryen will always struggle with emotional restraint, and with no prying eyes upon her, she allows herself a few hours peace. Missandei draws her a bath; her position is higher than that but Daenerys wants no one else brushing oil through her hair and Missandei is glad of the opportunity to talk. They discuss Grey Worm and the Dornish mission and Missandei’s intention to visit her homeland for a while, with Daenerys’ bittersweet blessing. She almost tells her friend what occurred, but the words stick in her throat, clamping down in her chest, unwilling to be shared, as if it is hers and hers alone. 

 

Missandei leaves her to her bath, and Daenerys submerges herself in the scalding water, feeling the reassuring beat of her heart in her head, and allows herself to dwell on the cold light on goldcloak armour, and how Jorah tasted sweeter than she’d ever expected.


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bear with me on this one, if you'll pardon the pun. Had to wrap some stuff up and it's arguably better written than a lot of what I've written about the main plot. After this, it will be mostly Jorah and Dany's development. If you're only here for that, you can skip this one, I just couldn't quite manage to write a story entirely about straight people, it seems x

Like a near-fatal wound, the land weeps as a sign of its healing.

 

Slowly, those sheltering in Winterfell, recuperating still from the onslaught of the Dead, emerge and dissipate, like animals nosing their way out of hibernation. The walls are slowly raised again, the holes patched, the tears dried, and the North recovers and remembers with the steadfast pragmatism it has always been known for. 

 

Sansa is crowned to cheers and rejoicing. She refuses to address her anxiety that her people, gorged on honour, made strong by masculine prowess, would not accept a Queen in the North, and this refusal seems to kill the threat before it is born. Men ten years older than her, men she’s grown up knowing as great warriors, men with no fear and no pity and no softness, drop to their knees before her throne and pledge their sword to Winterfell once more. 

 

People come and go, her sister being one of them. She appears at dawn and disappears overnight, gone for months at a time, returning with strange prizes, suspicious amounts of gold, secrets that burn Sansa’s ears. She cannot tie her sister to their ancestral home, she knows this, but she cannot deny that she misses her, despite their history, or perhaps even because of it. Besides, Arya will always return. Of this she is certain. 

 

Bran is much the same, much unchanged and unchanging. She feels she should be more caring towards her crippled little brother, but their relationship has taken the form of comrades more than siblings. She offers him quiet hospitality, he offers her advice and cryptic insight. She asks if he needs anything, he smiles distantly and says he does not. She leaves him be, and he decides when he needs to seek her out. She would not say he seems happy, but he seems...peaceful. 

 

She hosts and houses families she has never heard of before. She learns of allegiances more intricate than she could have imagined. She receives more men than she can politely tolerate, climbing over one another at a chance to marry her. She has made no secret of her distaste for marriage. The wedding gown she once dreamed of was ripped from her young body. The feast she imagined turned rotten. There is blood where there should be beauty. She turns coldly from those that claim to love her, regardless of whether or not she believes them.

 

The ebb and flow of visitors carries a regular on its tide. Yara Greyjoy arrives at Winterfell soon after Sansa returns from King’s Landing, after the execution of Cersei. She is sober and quiet. Sansa has never met her before, but she has heard stories. She is another powerful noble, ruling without a man. She has been doing it longer than Sansa, and she has heard such intriguing things, such bold words of Yara’s ferocity and valour, the respect her men have for her, that she is a little disappointed. She is shorter than Sansa, and a lot plainer, with unkempt mousy hair and a weathered face pulled in a mournful expression. Sansa is aware of her own coldness, it is a necessity she is sure Yara feels too, but she had hoped for someone more decadent and engaging in her power.

 

_ Like Daenerys _ , she thinks to herself bitterly.

 

Of course, Yara is in mourning. The only remaining member of her close family died far away from their home, after he had only just found it again. Sansa feels a twin pain flare up again in her own heart. She takes Yara to the place in the Godswood where she had laid the burnt remains of Theon, and they stand, still and silent, side by side, until the dying light and blistering snow drives them inside. 

 

Sansa personally shows Yara to her chambers, and tells her she may stay as long as she likes. Yara observes her in the doorway, respect and loss mingling together in her gaze, and Sansa is suddenly more aware of her as a person who has lost a brother, not a hard beast that has emerged from the sea with too many limbs to be comfortable. She bids her goodnight and closes the door. 

 

Yara eats a little, helps a little, and then takes a few iron born stragglers back to her islands with her. Sansa doesn’t see her off. 

 

She’s back a month later. Sansa returns from Daenerys and Jon’s wedding and she’s waiting for her in the great hall. She is picking the pips out of a Volantis apple when Sansa enters. 

 

_ She got that from our stores, _ she thinks neutrally. Yara immediately jumps to attention, sheathing her dagger. 

 

“Lady Stark.” Her voice is the only feminine thing about her. It lacks the roughness even Theon’s retained. It is more rain than saltwater.

 

“Lady Greyjoy. What a pleasure to see you again so soon.”

 

Yara discards the empty compliment with a glance. “This is not a social visit.”

 

“I’d assumed as much. Would you like to talk?”

 

“Aye, if you have time.”

 

“I do. Over dinner, perhaps?”

 

Yara’s tongue flicks between her lips. Sansa fights the urge to look at the apple she still holds.

 

“You are generous. I’d be honoured.”

 

Two girls, raised to speak like ladies will sit at dinner and plan like kings.

 

Yara’s table manners make Sansa cringe. She holds her fork overhand, speaks with her mouth full, rocks back in her chair, picks up crumbs on her fingers and sucks them into her mouth. She is keen to broker a relationship between the North and the Iron Islands, and it is a drive Sansa fortunately shares. Yara suggests exchanging squires, Sansa suggests trading ore for fish, and they drink Braavosi wine to peace between their lands. By the time a dessert of fruit and lemoncakes is brought to the table, Sansa feels herself warmed by the fire, by new and interesting company, and she greatly resents her fast judgement on meeting Yara. She was muted by grief, and now there is a glitter of mischief in her eye, a brilliance of personality in the quirk of her mouth, and Sansa finds her unusual but pleasing to talk to. Conversation meanders from politics to personal life. Yara’s wit draws laughter from her. 

 

Sansa picks up her lemoncakes with her fingers to eat them. Yara doesn’t touch the cakes, but bites forcefully into a proffered apple.

 

She stays for eight days. Sansa takes her riding and shows her the extent of the damage. Yara speaks to the men with nowhere to go and offers them work in her shipyard. On the final day, she meets Bran, who emerges into the courtyard before she leaves. What they speak of, Sansa doesn’t know, as she stands observing them from the balcony, too far away to hear.

 

In the spaces between people’s visits, Sansa takes stock of dwindling food supplies, and writes to her sister-by-law to arrange more supplies from Essos, with her tongue between her teeth and her hand clenched around her quill. She longs for self-sufficiency. She is loathe to depend on anyone, even if the frost around her heart concerning Daenerys has thawed somewhat. 

 

_ Feed me and I won’t go to war with you, Dragon Queen. _ But the threat feels empty. Suspicion and jealousy have matured into respect. She has noticed that when she greets the Queen, it is no longer a lie, on either woman’s part.

 

Arya returns with the next tide. There is a young man with her. She says he is from the Reach and is travelling with her. She gives him orders, and he is besotted. Sansa would be proud if she didn’t find it rather sad. They are given separate chambers and Arya does not complain. Sansa allows her privacy.

 

Bran watches her with a new expression as she brings him his dinner himself. The land grows harder. The nights grow longer. The wind grows colder.

 

She dreams of dragon scales and wolf pelt, soaked in blood from where they have torn each other apart. She feels huge tentacles strangling her. She wakes up thinking of the Greyjoys, and worries that the weather must be a lot worse, worries that perhaps even the strongest of men cannot withstand the harshest conditions of nature.

 

When Yara returns, Sansa is surprised to find that she has been waiting to see her again. When she shakes Sansa’s hand at the gate, she grips it tightly with her own gloved one, and Sansa neither expects nor wants a curtsey. There is colour in her cheeks from the wind and a smirk on her face that Sansa has come to admire.

 

“I imagine the Iron Islands are feeling the winter?”

 

“Aye. We’re losing livestock...and workers…”

 

Pyke is dank and gloomy. Winterfell is closer, warmer, like a haven rather than a prison, but Sansa does not wish to offend her guest by insulting her home. Yara comes to receive Winterfell’s payment for the ships Sansa asked for, flying the Stark banner and to be moved to White Harbour. Once more, she stays long enough to imply the hospitality is not lost on her, but not long enough to be considered unnecessary.

 

She is as boisterous as some of the men, and Sansa never sees her in a skirt. She’s absent from the castle for several days, and Sansa thinks she must have left without bidding her a formal farewell, but she returns in the morning, with rabbits slung over her saddle and fresh life in her.

 

They move like this. Yara comes and goes. Winterfell and the Iron Islands have never been closer. They work in tandem, in a push and pull of convenience, giving and taking from each other in equal measure, and it dawns on Sansa that the two kingdoms have more in common than she had ever considered. Sometimes she catches Yara just looking over Winterfell, its ancient walls and broken towers, the shallow and endless hills rolling on beyond its gates. 

 

_ She is seeing what Theon saw. She is building herself an image of his childhood _ .

 

The children of winter play in the courtyard in the dwindling hours of daylight. Yara pulls her borrowed fur around her shoulders and Sansa realises she’s been watching her. 

 

“Do you think they will know a terror like that again?” Yara asks.

 

Sansa thinks of seal pups and baby birds and blind kittens. She thinks of warmth and safety and then suddenly life, and a world too big and hard and unforgiving. She thinks of being born soft, like a cruel joke, and how life is a race to see whose skin will thicken the quickest.

 

“Maybe not like that, but they will know terror. It is the way of things.”

 

Yara laughs quietly, inelegantly. “You live up to your family name. Theon said the lot of you were miserable.”

 

It is more a prod than a stab, something Sansa has learned to pick out of Yara’s tone when she was forced to tolerate her, before she began to  _ enjoy _ her company. 

 

“Well Robb was right about you. You all smell.” She says evenly.

 

Yara stares, her lips creeping up into a smile.

 

“I’ll have you know I smell fine.”

 

“Well, yes,  _ now _ , because you’ve been in Winterfell long enough.”

 

Yara pauses. She licks her lips. She gazes back out across the courtyard.

 

“Yes, I suppose I have.”

 

The next time she comes, they drink too much and talk about their fathers. Yara forgoes her usual jaunt into town with her men and opts instead to sit by the fire with Sansa and irritate her as she tries to answer letters. One of the dogs, a strain very close to a wolf, whelps a litter, and Sansa hands the iron grey one to Yara without a second thought. Yara lets her lace her into one of her dresses, just to laugh at her as she stands there looking, for once, uncomfortable.

 

The next time she arrives with only three men escorting her. Her pup, already large enough to run beside her mount, greets Sansa like he remembers her. Yara shows herself to her regular chambers and when they sit down to dinner, Sansa notes that her hair looks shinier than usual, its styling more pleasing, pulled away from her cheekbones and cutting along her jawline.

 

Yara looks prettier in general. No, that’s not the right word, she looks  _ better _ , not prettier, still hard as rock but with an infectious and attractive life to her, like something crackling under her skin. Sansa can’t tell if she’s imagining it, or if Yara’s actually made an effort. She cannot decide which outcome would be more worrying.

 

She makes Sansa laugh, which she doesn’t do much these days, only with her sister and even then it’s rare. There was a time when she thought nothing would ever be funny again, that there was no room left in her brain for frivolity or the follies of others. But Yara is bold, she pulls no punches and swerves no soft spots. She is mirthful and sarcastic, witty and charming, and Sansa cannot believe she ever thought her dull.

 

She does not want her to leave. There is a notch in Winterfell that is only apparent once it is vacated, and small as it may be, it is still there, and Greyjoy-shaped.

 

The evening moves on with a sense of unknowable finality, streaming towards an end that Sansa cannot identify until it is too late. She asks her how long she plans to stay, and Yara just pushes herself off her door mantle, shrugs, and kisses her.

 

It has been many merciful years since Sansa was kissed, and yet she still, in hindsight, should be more prepared. Yara moves away after Sansa fails to reciprocate, but she doesn’t look dejected or deterred, just curious and a little smug. Sansa wonders if things were this way from the beginning. 

 

The next morning Sansa wakes to find Yara blinking pensively out at the countryside. The snow falls fast but the room is warm and alive. Sansa’s thighs ache. Her stomach flutters. She is tired, and uncomfortably vulnerable, but she remembers where she is and who she is, and swallows it down, watching Yara from the bed with open confidence. Yara hasn’t dressed, and the muscles in her back show the power in her lithe build. Every layer stripped back makes her prettier and prettier. Sansa didn’t know that what married couples do to make children could be pleasurable. She didn’t know that it could work with two women. She didn’t know what Yara could draw from her, reveal in her, take from her and give to her with just her fingers and tongue. 

 

“I should leave before the snow gets too deep to travel through.” Says Yara, apparently aware that she is being watched.

 

“Be careful. It’s only going to get colder.” 

 

She sees her smirk in the reflection of the window. “I’ll be careful.”

 

“Will you be returning soon?” Sansa asks, attempting to be casual.

 

Yara looks at her over her shoulder. Her pale eyes glitter with mirth and mischief. It sends another foreign thrill through Sansa. She could get addicted to the unexpected bursts of feeling Yara ignites in her.

 

“Yes, I expect I shall.”

 

Sansa believes her. There is an ease to their dynamic that is refreshing. She’s never felt so calm and yet so nervous around someone before. She wonders briefly if she is in love, before realising how ridiculous that would be.

 

The next month, Sansa leaves Bran presiding over Winterfell as she goes to negotiate another trade deal with the Iron Islands. Pyke is as freezing and dreary as she’d imagined it, but the people are lively, and Yara is expressly pleased to see her. Sansa wonders if her father would applaud her ability to unite two unlikely, powerful houses if he knew how intimate the connection is. Yara makes her think, then makes her laugh, then makes her moan.

 

“It is so cold here.” She says, afterwards, in Yara’s sparse chambers.

 

“Yes, and it’s getting colder. We have no shelter from the sea winds. I imagine Skagos and Bear Island are almost ice-locked by now.”

 

“Are you worried that it could happen here?”

 

Yara regards her for a moment. “Aye.” She has not appeared vulnerable since the first time they met, when the ghost of Theon stood between them. Sansa brushes her fingertips over Yara’s wrist.

 

“Maybe you and your people should move further inland, where you’re more likely to survive the winter.”

 

She knows as soon as she says the words that they are in vain. Yara blinks into the fire at the other end of the room.

 

“Iron born will live and die by their rocks. The sea could freeze over, and we would be stuck to our castles right along with it. It’s not in our blood to leave the coast for too long.”

 

“You’re not made for solid land.” Sansa says, understanding and sadness in her words.

 

“I’m learning to like the country. More and more. It is warmer.” Says Yara with a quirk of her lips.

 

Sansa considers the future, how she itches for Yara when she is away, how they will travel for weeks to spend a few days together, and how that is unsustainable.

 

“What are you thinking about?” Her voice is soft like butter, Sansa shifts closer to her under the covers.

 

“How our lands are very far apart.” She has been sharing a bed with Yara for only a matter of months, but she cannot fathom wanting to stop anytime soon. She is the head of House Greyjoy; if she were a man she’d be a suitable match. But she is not a man, and two women cannot produce heirs.

 

She twists a lock of Sansa’s hair around her finger, watching the firelight catch in the shades of red. She sighs.

 

“They are. They feel on opposite sides of the Narrow Sea sometimes.”

 

Sansa is relieved to hear her say it. 

 

“I’ve grown...very fond of you, Lady Stark.” She says, with a curve of irony. Sansa smiles back.

 

“I thought perhaps you just pitied me.”

 

“What is there to pity? You have the world in your hand. You are wiser than I ever expected you to be.”

 

“I wasn’t always wise.”

 

She has revealed to Yara some of the horrors of her past, in their quietest moments, but Yara knows that Sansa likes to talk about it rarely, and only on her own terms, so she looks pained, and then drops the subject. 

 

“Things would be easier if we were men.” Says Yara, and Sansa almost laughs at the connotations of the statement.

 

“Our kingdoms work well together. We share a lot of the same principles. We are doing good by interlocking them more.”

 

“I hope we have a long future of unity ahead of us.” Yara says boldly, and at that Sansa  _ does _ laugh.

 

Winter is here, and she hasn’t felt this happy in years.


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! Some of you really like the Jorah POV chapters, so you're in luck with this one! xx

Jorah wakes in his modest apartments with more gold on his epaulets, more honour to his name, and more knotted, excited anxiety in his chest, than he has had in many years.

 

Daenerys made a spectacle of him, announcing a tourney in his honour, and the honour of the men he’d taken back Dorne with, and he smiled and knelt and bowed and accepted everything she’d bestowed upon him with the unshakeable feeling that, with a single moment of spontaneous contact, she’d given him more than any higher power ever could.

 

He’d dreamed it, surely? There would be no other reason for it to be so powerfully, so  _ permanently _ realised in his head. He must have imagined the whole thing, or else he is going mad.

 

All he can think of is the look in her eyes as she pulled away from his lips for only a moment; that look of stifled joy, of unexpected happiness, that he never thought he’d bring her. She is composed in every facet, unshaken and stronger than anyone he’s ever met, but for a few seconds she looked raw and bare, and happy about it, and the fact that he’d brought that about fills him with an irritating amount of unsuppressable glee that keeps him floating.

 

His men regard him with respect, but increasingly with scrutiny. Daenerys runs so hot, feels so much, and makes no secret of her compassion or her fury. How pleased she is with him spills from her every time she moves. He has always been modest, uncomfortable at the centre of attention, uneasy with excessive praise, and that has not changed, but after years of drinking up every drop of affection and gratitude she gives him as if it would sustain him, he cannot bring himself to resent, or even heed the danger, of her flattery.

 

_ Why did she kiss him? Did something in her just...snap? Has the pressure worn away at her mind? _

 

_ Did she want to? Does she want to still? Has she wanted to for a while? _

 

He is a fool to behave this way; like a _child_. He is older than he feels, older than is appropriate for the Queen, as he always has been. He is to be logical, measured, grounding, not some fawning boy who can barely go a minute without _sighing_. Pining does not become him, and although he has lived for years loving Daenerys from a distance with no hope of reciprocation, he would never let that get in the way of his duty. He confronts it, accepts it, and moves on. He loves her too much to be selfish. 

 

He thinks of her visit in the middle of the night as they waited in Dragonstone. She spoke of dreams. He had not wanted to worry her, assuring her that she was not going mad, but it likely wasn’t anything to worry about. He told the truth; his nights were plagued with visions of his own, and recently they had grown more vivid, distinctive and repetitive. 

 

He dreams of Viserion a lot. The dream will be so realistic he will feel as if he is awake, going about his duties in the Red Keep, and then the cold, enormous corpse of Daenerys’ middle child will come crashing through the ceiling, ripping the building in open, crushing those below. Sometimes Jorah clings helplessly to his back, watching the ground get further and further away as they soar, but Viserion’s breath comes out as ice, not fire, his flesh is rotting and dissolving, he twists and thrashes in an attempt to shake Jorah from his back, and Jorah can do nothing but cling to something that used to be under his protection, but now belongs to the Night King.

 

And the tent. He dreams of Khal Drogo’s tent. It appears in his periphery as he begins to wake, the last lingering image as the dream slips away, the last thought he carries into consciousness. It looms behind his father like a stern and disapproving sentinel. It presents itself to him as he struggles through an endless blizzard; a promise of shelter always just out of reach. It catches his eye in the flurries of battles, meanders into twisting images in some of the more surreal dreams, splits into animal skins and reforms into the beings they were before they were used to construct it, grows out of cliff faces and the rolling hills of Winterfell, appears where a figure stood only moments before.

 

And, every now and then, he will fight against pain, or fatigue, or a barrier of sound, or his own deep dread, and carry Daenerys into it as she screams.

 

He wakes in a tangle of sheets, feeling every drop of revitalised blood pumping just under his skin. 

 

Things are looking better for him than they have in years and yet he still cannot sit still. He comes third in the tournament thrown in his honour, but the position is positively startling for a man of his age. He is bequeathed a new horse, a new sword, that he knows he will polish and cherish and yet still carry Heartsbane into battle. He is paraded through the streets on the way to the half-rebuilt Sept of Baelor for the appointment of Grand Maester Darrik, and people cheer for him. His name bursts from strangers’ mouths and rings across his armour and up the sides of the narrow streets. Would his father, perhaps, be proud of him now? For bringing honour to their name, even if it was with a usurper queen who subjugated the North?

 

He realises, as Daenerys beams at him across the Sept with breathless ease, the currently roofless building drenching her in sunlight, her silver hair blending into the silver fur she is wrapped in, that he no longer cares what his father would have thought. He was a noble man, and Jorah betrayed his trust and defiled his name, but he thinks perhaps he has grown enough, proved enough, achieved enough, to step outside of his shadow.

 

The first time they are alone again, fully alone, without fear of interruption, is almost a week after his return. He has not been on guard duty much recently; his rank is too senior and there are logistical duties to see to, but as he escorts her back to her room at dusk after a long meeting with the lords of the Vale, she dismisses the guard with him.

 

“I think Ser Jorah will be sufficient to search my room. I imagine it won’t take too long, and a Dornish assassin is nothing he can’t handle.”

 

The other man nods and leaves without question. Jorah steps confidently into the room, his duty driving away the dryness in his throat, as he begins to mechanically search the room, trying not to look at the bed they shared before he left, the wall she cowered against when she was almost murdered, the chair she sat in when she told him she was going to marry Jon Snow, the clothes she wore today day draped across a chair for the maid, the brush Missandei combs through her hair, the bowl she washes her face in, the Queen herself, watching him search, her gaze like a banding iron between his shoulder blades.

 

“There is nothing here, your grace, I am certain of it.”

 

She blinks at him. She is resting against the door to her balcony with one arm, slightly tilted towards the outside, mostly looking at him. He feels his heart stutter. He consciously unclenches his fists.

 

“I suppose I just have to be completely certain when you are not guarding me.”

 

“ _ Khaleesi _ , I can take the watch tonight, if it would make you feel better.”

 

“No, that wouldn’t do at all.” She says, moving away from the window. She pulls her robe tighter around herself. She glances at the door, and then her bed. She shakes her head to move her loose hair from her face. When she looks at him again, she drags her gaze up from the floor, all the way to his eyes. When their eyes meet, hers narrow, her brows drawing together minutely.

 

“I must learn to live independently from you, my knight. It would be all too easy to allow myself weakness if I knew you were always there to pick up any slack. I must not be afraid. I must be rational and independent, not afraid and simpering.”

 

“There is no weakness in fear,  _ khaleesi _ .”

 

“There is in reliance.” Her lips are tugged downwards by a force he cannot name. An external force, he thinks.

 

“Is there something the matter, your grace?”

 

There  _ is _ something the matter, he knows. There is a  _ thing _ growing on the floor between them. To him it looks equal part monster and flower. It sits and slowly blossoms, and he wonders absently how long it will be before she addresses it. She must address it. It is not his place to conduct the Queen’s affairs quite so actively.

 

_ She must not think on it, you old fool. A lapse in judgement, a chink in armour that she mistook for emotion, or desire, or worse yet, pity; it is nothing more _ . His thoughts lower his brow, and suddenly he cannot look at her for shame.

 

“No, nothing is the matter.” Despite the weight she carries in her posture, her eyes are alive and contemplative. She blinks softly at him. 

 

She’s looking at him like she’s waiting for him to say something. He folds his hands together to stop himself fidgeting, tries not to look at her mouth for too long, and waits to be dismissed. 

 

He wonders, were she anywhere else, were they anywhere else, if she would tell him she made a mistake, or perhaps even draw him to her again. Were she not the Queen, would they be able to act, speak and feel more freely? Or is there something in their dynamic, something innate in their decade-long dance, that means they can share everything but this. They are blind to what is most prevalent, perhaps. And yet he knows she does not love him. She has never, and likely will never. Hope is a beautiful, a powerful driving force, but it is deadly when it crumbles, so Ser Jorah sustains himself on the knowledge that his never will.

 

Anyway, were she to love him, everything would become a great deal more difficult and dangerous. A person may be devoted to her, many people may be devoted to her and her alone, but she must not give all of herself to an individual when there is barely enough to go around the people she governs anyway.

 

Then there is the ‘but’. With Daenerys there is so often a ‘but’. That is what hope is now. That is the shape it assumes; the vicious, exquisite voice that it speaks with. It is the ineffable ‘although’, the just tangible ‘and yet’, that makes his life sweeter while also making it harder.

 

_ But… _

 

She had kissed him. She had held his gaze for a moment, and the decision was her body’s not her brain’s, or else he believes he would have read it in her eyes and had maybe a second of warning. She held him tightly, demanded as much as she gave, fused their mouths together so she wouldn’t have to explain herself, pressed her thigh against his, slipped his hand around the supple curve of her waist, and he only lifted her onto her desk because she practically asked for it.

 

What is he to think, now the ‘if’ has become a ‘when’?

 

He is pulled from his thoughts when he realises she is coming closer. He waits for a request, or an order, or an opinion, but gets none. There is a very faint colouring along her cheekbones; a tell only those close to her would pick up, and he feels like a child again, but he does not avert his gaze this time.

 

His foolish heart still jumps, his blood still rushes, as she touches his cheek, even now after she has done so many times. He tries to swallow subtly to hide how dry his mouth has gone. 

 

He is terrified that he should do something, that she  _ wants _ him to do something, but years of quelling the fire have left embers too hot to touch, and he berates his own fear. For a moment her eyes lose focus, she is lost in her own thoughts, her brow furrowing, her lips parting. He wonders what she’s thinking. He has never been more in the dark.

 

“ _ Khaleesi _ …”

 

Something in his tone must draw her back, because her violet eyes focus, her vision clears, her lips press shut. She looks confused, mournful, lesser derivatives of the ache unfurling in himself, like two castles under siege, facing each other and not  _ seeing _ .

 

“I...am sorry, Ser Jorah. In the whole mess of it all, I’m afraid I overstepped my boundaries.”

 

_ Oh, so we shall be discussing it… _

 

This is the Queen speaking, not Daenerys. She seems reluctant to put physical distance between them, so she compensates with her tone.

 

“You did nothing of the sort, your grace.”

 

_ How could you, when there are no boundaries to overstep? _

 

“It’s... _ dangerous _ ,” she begins again, choosing her words carefully, still close enough to feel, to touch, “To act on impulse, to lose control, even for a second.”

 

She’s right. One wrong step and everything they’ve built could come crashing down. She will not be buried in the rubble, he knows, because he will shield her with his own body if it comes to that, but now is not the time to tell her this, when she might feel it as an attempt at persuasion.

 

“You’re still human,  _ khaleesi _ , you are not impenetrable. Nor are you incapable of making mistakes.”

 

A flutter passes over the upper half of her face at the last word. It looks for a moment like confusion, or perhaps doubt, maybe even sadness. She is getting increasingly better at hiding her emotions, even from him, who could read fourteen years into the first look she ever gave him, as he handed her a pile of books and spoke to her in her tongue.

 

“Mistakes…” She says, and his masochistic mind fills in the second half of the sentence for him: ‘ _ not habits’ _ .

 

She blinks slowly, as if she is closing her eyes for a moment. When the fog clears, she looks like a queen again. She moves away like it pains her to do so.

 

“I’m going to visit my children. They need to stretch their wings, and this weather is making Rhaegal lethargic. Would you accompany me? I should have protection, I think, and the dragons know you.”

 

“I would be honoured,  _ khaleesi _ .”

 

More time alone with her bodes ill, but he cannot deny the excitement that never fades when she reaches out. He thinks of his dreams. He wonders if he should mention it to her, seen as it might be relevant. Perhaps she is experiencing something similar?

 

She looks as if she wants to speak, to tell him more, but as he waits the compulsion fades from her face. He must trust that she will reveal what she needs to in time, and continue his fight against resenting the barrier between them, that becomes more frustrating the more it thins. She doesn’t seem angry with him, at least. That’s something.

 

“Good. We’ll go tomorrow morning.”

 

“Ser Travan can take over my post while I am away.”

 

“Good. You may go.” 

 

At the time, the kiss felt like a release of tension; the explosion of something too taught, the overflow of water from a burst dam, and yet none of the pressure has been relieved. It doesn't feel like this energy has left his system, nor the recent awkward tension dispelled, but rather, it has more of a shape, a texture, a taste, than it did before. 

 

She dismisses him, but she doesn’t turn her attention away from him as she usually does when she has no more need of him. She watches him, unabashedly, as he leaves, and as bizarrely awkward as is it, he cannot bring himself to feel trepidation at their change in dynamic.

 

_ Nothing broken, nothing fixed,  _ he thinks, as he heads to his City Watch briefing.

  
  



	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got to say that in the next few weeks I will try to update regularly, but the end of term is so so busy for me that this is not at the top of my priorities list. I don't want to break my routine, and I have next week's chapter pretty much written, and a clear idea of where this all goes, but since I have less and less time I must warn you that I might be a day or two late in the coming weeks.
> 
> I hope you like this one, it was fun to write, and it's loooooooong xxx

Emerging from the face of the cliff upon which the Red Keep stands is a small balcony.

 

It was a temporary lookout post for a time, when the sea wore away a large part of the cliff and caused it to collapse, taking the original lookout tower with it and this balcony had to do. However, after a few years, a new tower was built, higher up, with sturdier foundations and a better view, and the balcony stands mostly forgotten. At the height of the cold day, when the weather is harsh and the wind is bitingly cold, Jon Snow stands on the balcony, looking out at the endless stretch of sea, and for a moment feels as if he is back at The Wall, standing at the precipice, his skin numb and his heart aching, staring out into oblivion.

 

Alone but not lonely, isolated but never far from those he cares about, self-sufficient but relied upon for protection by others; it is no wonder that Jon felt happiest among his Night’s Watch brothers.

 

He’s been trying to draft a letter, but flecks of seawater, or spots of rain, have dampened it to the point that he’ll have to rewrite it anyway. 

 

_ Sansa, _

 

_ Peace at last, but I still worry about Dorne. King’s Landing feels like a pot of stew, bubbling steadily, but I’m aware of being boiled. _

 

He crosses out the line. Too pretentious. He tries again.

 

_ How are things in Winterfell? I have been thinking about you and Bran and Arya. I hope you are all together. _

 

He crosses this out too. Too patronising. 

 

_ I miss you all very much. The snow has not settled here. Winter without snow does not feel right. _

 

He sighs. 

 

_ I miss Ghost too, but he wouldn’t survive down here. Direwolves were not meant to live south of The Wall, let alone south of the country. _

 

_ There is dispute over the Dothraki settlements in the Crownlands, so we may need to send them north where there is more room. They will hate it, but their way of life is better suited to our land than this Southern way. _

 

He crosses out ‘our’, and then regrets it. When he rewrites it, he will leave it as ‘our land’.

 

He has never been close to Sansa. In fact, she used to despise him, or at least hold as much disdain for him as she did for most people who were not elegant and cultured and charming. He was not part of her family in her opinion, but that was something he was used to. After everything that happened to them, however, after Ned Stark’s death, the bloody Frey wedding, the scattering and murder of most of their family, her marriage to Tyrion, her marriage to Ramsay, her escape from King’s Landing and her imprisonment in Winterfell, when they met again at Castle Black, there was no room for hierarchy or resentment based on nothing. When there are so few of your own blood left, you cannot be picky, and he’d like to think she knew him to be kind. Now, there is nothing he would not do for her, and as much as he tries to deny it now, he longs to be back with her and Bran and Arya, in Winterfell, in the North, where he knows he belongs. 

 

And it isn’t as if Daenerys needs him anymore. The dejection he feels at her growing distance from him would have stung more if he hadn’t somehow expected it. Were they in love once? How is it possible that those days seem a lifetime ago? Had they really held each other every night and promised each other the world? She was proving herself a worthy and just ruler, and he was happy to see her change the world, bit by bit, the conqueror she was born to be, and so he couldn’t help but wonder if the time they spent together was another step on her way to the throne, one she had seen coming, one she had planned for, one she had taken without any expectation of eternity. 

 

He thinks of how he loved Ygritte, how he still loves Ygritte, with fire and teeth, and how he loves Daenerys with the ebb and flow of the ocean; vast, occasionally stormy, immovable, and yet comparatively barren and unreachable. 

 

He will have to let her go, he thinks, before realising that he may have already. She has certainly let him go.

 

The sound of the sea crashing mutes footsteps descending the stone steps dug into the cliff face. He doesn’t realise he has company until she touches his arm. He would turn, would draw his weapon, at least tense, but only one person in King’s Landing would touch him so freely and so firmly, without speaking first.

 

He must have summoned her with his loud thoughts, he muses.

 

“My queen.” He has to raise his voice to be heard. She looks distinctly uncomfortable, cold and exposed to the elements. She pulls her cloak closer to herself.

 

“Jon. You come here often. There are many places less... _harsh_.”

 

“It is sometimes the only place I can be alone.”

 

“I’m sorry,” she says, and she looks it, awkward and encroaching, “I will leave you in peace.”

 

He smiles. “There is no need, your grace, I’m just trying to write to my sister, but I’ve never been good with words.”

 

Surely a husband would normally ask his wife for help writing his letters, if he required it? It seems like something Ned Stark would ask of Lady Catelyn. He supposes there is little about this marriage that is normal, most obviously the secret blood they share and the fact they have not touched each other intimately since Winterfell. He does not ask for her help because he thinks she wouldn’t care very much, as his family is not truly her family, even if they are joined by law. He does not ask because he does not want her to sculpt the words he will send to Sansa, and he does not want her to read the words he has already written. 

 

“Well, what are you trying to say?”

 

It is probably meant to be an attempt at helping, but it suddenly feels too much like prying. His whole life is hers, but hers is not his. She is the Queen, and he is the Queen’s husband. It is what he wanted; he would rather face the Army of the Dead once more than be King, but the uneven exchange makes him feel vulnerable. He used to be all that stood between the Seven Kingdoms and whatever lay beyond; him and several hundred others just like him. Now, despite his title, he is less; a symbol, a possession of the crown, and nothing more. He feels as if he has lost all worth.

 

“Nothing in particular. I just...wanted to write to her, and see how things fare up in the North.”

 

He thought his answer had been noncommittal, but she clearly reads more in it than he intended.

 

“You miss it.”

 

It is not a question, and they both know it.

 

“Aye, I do.”

 

She sighs. She makes no noise, but he sees her chest fall. Her bright eyes flick to the horizon. Hers is a cold beauty that he always thought reminded him of the North; of its snowswept planes and perfect, icy distance. But now he sees her longing, how she is perhaps a foreigner here too, although they were both born in the South of Westeros. Their Targaryen blood does not call out for the rock of their ancestors like she perhaps expected it to. She may be silver like frost, pale and pristine like winter, but she is all fire inside; sandstorms and heat and richness. She is a product of the land that made her, not the land that birthed her, and he sees that as she looks out to sea. 

 

She, however, has learnt to adapt. She, unlike him, does feel at home here somewhat. She will survive, and thrive, in King’s Landing. He knows it will slowly suffocate him.

 

She looks to him then, and smiles.

 

“You should deliver your message in person.”

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“You should take what you want to say to Sansa yourself. You should visit your home.”

 

“You...you would permit that, your grace?”

 

“Of course. I see how you miss it. I see how you are unhappy, and that makes me unhappy. I will send you there with official business; a peace envoy of sorts, and you may stay for a few months, if you’d like.”

 

He could cry with relief. The North seems so far away, and with all of his duties, he had never even thought to ask permission to visit.

 

“Who will take over my Small Council duties?”

 

“Lord Tyrion has a lot on his plate already, but Ser Jorah and Ser Jaime should be able to cope.”

 

“And...how will it look for me to be leaving my wife here to rule alone?”

 

“Our relationship with the North is important. Ned Stark and Robert Baratheon kept peace for years based on their friendship. Sending you home to stay with Sansa will look like a wise move; it will show respect to the North, and keep them happy. They think I’m holding you hostage, this will show them I am doing no such thing.”

 

“I...don’t know what to say, your grace.” He drops his head in a bow of humility, not as a conscious gesture, but because he cannot quite look her in the face.

 

“Say you will. Say you would like to, and that you will be happy to leave, and then content to return, and we can put pretense behind us.”

 

His heart swells, his jaw clenching and he swallows a tide of emotion.

 

“Ok. Yes, I will go, and yes I want to go, and yes I will return.”

 

“Thank you, Jon Snow. I shall miss you.”

 

He believes her. And he believes that he will miss her too.

 

“And I you, your grace. If you need me, write, and I will return as fast as I can.”

 

“I will, but I have people here to protect me. Do not waste your worries on me. You need to breathe.”

 

The waves crash behind him like exhausted sighs. He feels small inside his many layers, and yet he wants to put even more on. Daenerys holds out a gloved hand, and Jon takes it, goes to shake it, and then bends to kiss it instead.

 

“Thank you, my queen. This means...so much.”

 

She smiles regally; tight at the edges, a furrow in her eyebrows of what might be pity. It is the smile she gives unfortunate subjects that she has helped.

 

“You are welcome.”

 

\- - - 

 

“Your grace, may I speak with you?”

 

“Of course, if it is urgent.”

 

He looks sheepish about addressing a monarch during a meal, but Daenerys has insisted that there is no issue with interrupting her lunch if it is urgent, and it appears that Jaime Lannister cannot wait.

 

“You grace, I have a matter which requires your permission.” He says.

 

She finishes her bread and washes her food down with a swig of wine. She addresses him where he stands in the doorway.

 

“I actually have something to discuss with you too. Will you take a seat?”

 

He looks reluctant, but he lowers himself into the chair opposite her.

 

“What do you want from me, your grace?”

 

She swallows. She leans back. She wallows in the sense of power she holds over this man; once the greatest warrior of the Seven Kingdoms, the heir to House Lannister. 

 

“Jon Snow is leaving for Winterfell. It is essential we maintain our relationship with the North, so he is returning home to ensure peace and negotiate some trade deals. I will need you and Ser Jorah to take on his duties.”

 

“That is a...great honour, your grace.”  _ And a huge undertaking, _ she hears in his tone.

 

“I pardoned you for your past crimes and allowed you to keep your name and birthright, allowed you Casterly Rock, allowed you a place in my palace. Now, you will repay the favour with your experience of war. I do hope there won’t be another for a long time, but it seems to be a full time job to ensure that.”

 

He nods. “The real war is fighting people’s attempts to start a war.”

 

“Indeed. Will you accept this important responsibility?”

 

“Your grace, Levin Royce has been in the capital as a representative of the Vale for several months now, and he is rather brilliant. I would suggest you consider him to assist with Jon’s duties as well as Ser Jorah and me. He knows the ways of war, and he’s read more than most maesters of the Citdael.”

 

“He is certainly impressive, but I cannot speak for his allegiance quite yet. I believe I can speak for yours.”

 

Jaime bows his head a little. Daenerys stirs in her seat.

 

“You do not want this new honour?”

 

“I have always shied from politics and been drawn to a fight, your grace, this I shall admit, but there is another reason why I fear I should not be given so much responsibility here in King's Landing.”

 

“And what reason is this?”

 

“Why I came to speak with you. I wish to marry.”

 

A raise of her eyebrows is the only indication of surprise she allows herself. Lannister or not, she admires Ser Jaime for his frankness, his bravery, his lack of grovelling.

 

“Marry? Who?” He cannot surely have found so quickly a highborn lady to marry for her name and land, especially in the disgrace he finds himself after Cersei’s reign. No one could move so fast, charm so thoroughly, that a lord forgets his family’s crimes at the promise of their gold?

 

“Ser Brienne, your grace.”

 

_ Oh _ . She is not a fool, and she had expected an affair, but she never thought Ser Jaime would be bold enough to marry her. She feels a sudden and disarming rush of respect, almost happiness, for the pair.

 

“You have broached the subject with her father?”

 

“Aye. He is happy with the match. Or, at least, he is too old and tired to properly dispute it.”

 

“And Lady Brienne has agreed also?”

 

“Yes. She has.” And the smile he suppresses leaks out of his eyes instead.

 

_ The fool. I suppose he deserves this. How wonderful it must be to love so plainly, so purely, and to not care about what people will say. _

 

“Congratulations. I wish you good fortune.”

 

“Thank you, your grace.”

 

“And...I suppose, you will want this marriage to happen relatively soon?”

 

“We were thinking within the next three months.”

 

“And then you will go…?”

 

“To Casterly Rock. It is my birthright, and now my father is dead, mine with no one to challenge me for it.”

 

“Not Tarth, then? You have a living sibling. As far as I am aware, Ser Brienne does not.”

 

“We shall appoint someone to preside over Tarth when her father dies...that is, in the absence of an heir.”

 

He still isn’t blushing. She has not seen someone so certain in their affections in a long time, and it makes her ache for some reason.

 

“And, naturally, you would not be best equipped to assist in council decisions from Casterly Rock.”

 

“I shall do my best while I am here, but I thought it pertinent that you know of my intentions to leave King’s Landing.”

 

“So soon, as well?”

 

He laughs a little, glances down and then up, as if contemplating a cosmic joke. “It is, your grace, far  _ far _ too late, as far as I am concerned. It has taken an almost stupid amount of time, so I thought, why waste another day? There are matters to settle in my ancestral seat, and no one is getting any younger.”

 

_ After everything Brienne of Tarth has done for me, after everything Jaime Lannister has suffered, it is perhaps time for some peace, _ she thinks. A child of war herself, she maybe understands their urgency.

 

“Of course. Who am I to stand in the way? Marry her when you will, but your duties here have no expiry date. You must assist me where you can, but I will of course take into account your situation.”

 

He bows his head. “After everything, your grace, there is little I would refuse you. It is still strange to see someone one the throne who actually deserves to be there. I have great hope, and will always want to help where I can.”

 

“Speak with Ser Levin. I will not have anyone incompotent so near the bones of my rule. I will need more audiences with him to be certain of his allegiance. As for you two, you shall have my support in maintaining hold of your land, not because of your names and your bloodlines, but because you stared death in the face and fought for the living on the battlefield of Winterfell, and I will never forget that. If I have your word, you have mine.”

 

He smiles deeper, warmer, more golden.

 

“You have my support, your grace. I also won't forget what you have given me.”

 

As she watches him walk through the door, she realises that she has become sick of the sight of people leaving.

 

\- - - 

 

“He’s been eating the Crownland cattle again. We’ll have more angry farmers at the gate before the month is out.” She doesn’t even try to keep the affection from her voice.

 

“If they want to call for justice they can speak to the poacher himself.” Says Jorah, equally lightly, watching the huge shadow of Drogon splinter the skull of a cow between his teeth.

 

“We could bring him into the throne room and have him sit in the stockade.” She laughs.

 

“Besides, as he grows he offers a sure protection of those under your rule. A few cattle is a small price to pay for a dragon.”

 

Rhaegal circles overhead. The pair watch as he swoops down to sit with his brother and pick at the bones of the kill. 

 

“How they’ve grown...” She muses, warm and affectionate. “Do you remember when we could carry them?”

 

“Aye. I remember when they used to be scared of the horses.”

 

“When Drogon lashed at Viserion over dinner and he spent the next day curled against my neck, licking his wounds.”

 

“He was always the dramatic one.”

 

She smiles sadly, but clearly doesn’t wish to avoid the topic. 

 

“He was sweet-tempered at least, more so than Drogon. He and Rhaegal were inseparable. I thought Viserion’s death might kill Rhaegal.”

 

“Dragons are strong, and infinitely more complex than most people understand, but he did mourn him.”

 

There is a faraway look in her eyes. “Yes, he did. They both did. They screamed for days, I thought I’d go mad. That’s what it sounded like in my head.”

 

“As I said, dragons are strong.”

 

She falls silent, but smiles still. Jorah wants to touch her, and provide comfort, but the winter air filling the gap between them feels impenetrable.

 

The dragons finish squabbling and move towards their mother for some attention. Drogon’s snout presses against her, unbalancing her, and she laughs as Rhaegal blows small plumes of smoke from his nostrils. His amber eye focuses on Jorah, and he feels the usual thrill of being caught in the gaze of the most powerful of beings. The awe is still there, but he no longer feels the desire to flee.

 

As Rhaegal moves closer, looking for attention, he feels Daenerys’ eyes join her child’s as they watch Jorah. He hesitates out of propriety, not fear, as he reaches his hand out to touch the green scales before him, shimmering like the sea under the cloudy midday sky.

 

They are like stone, but the stone that makes up a furnace, burning with an unquenchable, intangible warmth from within. He lets out a rush of air from his lungs.

 

Daenerys is laughing again.

 

“You are not scared, my knight, I can tell, but you needn’t treat him like such a treasure. You helped raise him, you protected him, you’re in many ways a father to my children; there from their birth.”

 

That shocks him to his core. He takes in a shaky breath that is less silent than he’d have hoped. The Father of Dragons, of  _ her _ dragons; it is too ridiculous to even entertain. These creatures were born from the land and from her, an ancient, sacred and intimate bond that he could never hope to understand, and he had been content with that, until she spoke the words he just heard.

 

If Khal Drogo had been killed sooner, if Daenerys’ heart was less gentle, if Mirri Maz Duur had died before they’d found her...if Rhaego had lived, he would have been a father to him. He would have died for that child; half-Dothraki, half-Targaryen and none of him. He would have done anything to keep him safe, to raise him well, to make him strong but gentle in places, like his mother. He would have stood between the child of Khal Drogo and certain death, and he would have done it without a second thought. He wants to tell her this, but he doesn’t want to remind her of her baby, and make her upset. Besides, he would like to think that she would assume as much of him anyway.

 

These dragons are her children. They are the Rhaego she never had, and never will have, and he has done just that for them. He failed with Viserion, and he blames himself for needing Daenerys and her children to come to the group’s aid, but two of the three live still, and he  _ will _ protect them as if they were his own children, despite his trepidation and their differences, because their mother is Daenerys.

 

“If I were their father perhaps they would have obeyed me more in their adolescence.” He says, lightly, turning the conversation to the sun for a change.

 

She smiles, and he half expects the snow to melt. 

 

“They obeyed you more than most.”

 

“Not enough. I almost lost an eye when Drogon refused to get back in his cage and I tried to be fatherly.”

 

She laughs at the memory, and he finds himself laughing too.

 

“As I recall, you lost half an eyebrow.”

 

He rubs said eyebrow. “I certainly did.”

 

“Well Viserion liked you best! Remember in the first days of Qarth, when they were growing so fast that their bones could barely keep up and he was so on edge that when you tried to leave him alone in his room he bit into your scabbard, and you had to carry him around for the better part of an hour, hanging off your belt by his teeth!”

 

“How could I forget? That was when you were trying to teach me High Valyrian. Well, in a manner of speaking.”

 

“What do you mean in a manner of speaking?”

 

“You gave up once you found there were more  _ interesting _ things to do in Qarth.”

 

She hits him playfully, her eyes gleeful.

 

“I’ll have you know I stopped trying because you spoke pretty good Valyrian anyway!”

 

“Not  _ High _ Valyrian, as was the point, if I remember correctly. They don’t speak it quite so beautifully in Volantis.”

 

She’s laughing again. Drogon looks a little put out by her diverted focus, but Rhaegal nips at his spines until his attention is diverted.

 

“You used to get the word for ‘woman’ and the word for ‘fruit’ confused!” She giggles. 

 

“They are  _ very _ similar, in my defense, and the subtleties of both dialects are entirely lost on a Westerosi fool such as myself.”

 

“At least Grey Worm put effort in.”

 

“Yes, because Missandei was his teacher.” He says, and then immediately regrets it. 

 

_ Because he had a reason to listen. Because he is in love with her. _

 

But, unlike in the past, when Daenerys seizes up and falls silent at the awkward unveiling of Jorah’s affection, she reads the regret on his face and softens to it, her eyes still alive with laughter, and her smile doesn’t fall.

 

His worthless heart soars, until she speaks again.

 

“We should go for a ride.”

 

“Excuse me,  _ khaleesi _ ?”

 

“Let’s go for a ride. Rhaegal has been short of attention recently. Jon, it seems, does not like to ride him for leisure. He’d let you, I’d imagine.”

 

“I’m not a Targaryen. It isn’t natural for me to ride dragons.”

 

“You have done so before.”

 

“Aye, to survive. As a last resort.”

 

“Are you not so afraid of me, then? I asked you, are you denying me?”

 

She is playful. He fights back a smirk.

 

“ _ Khaleesi _ , I am an old man.”

 

“Then you’d better hold on tight,  _ old man _ , since I can’t have you dying in such an embarrassing way.”

 

She pokes at his chest. He is wearing armour. He cannot tell if she is reminding him of this, or testing how frail he is.

 

He looks at her for a moment, his brows drawn together, and he cannot keep the upward tilt from his lips if he tried.

 

“Are you serious,  _ khaleesi _ ?”

 

She smiles back, wide and toothy, larger and more genuine than he has seen her smile in months, and she takes his wrist, tugs on it, pulls him towards the smaller of her massive children.

 

“Deadly serious, Ser Jorah. Hold on tight, he will support you. You’ll enjoy it when you’re not flying away from an army of corpses, I swear it. It’s something you  _ must _ experience.”

 

\- - -

 

Tyrion does not look happy when they land.

 

Daenerys cannot quell her mirth. Ser Jorah prises himself from Rhaegal spines, rigid with the cold, paler than she’s seen him since he was dead, looking like he is attempting not to show his relief at being on solid ground.

 

She laughs openly as he joins her on the coarse grass outside the gates of King’s Landing. He falls against Rhaegal’s side, pressing his forehead to the dragon’s neck, his hand against his scales, muttering something under his breath to the beast. She smiles wider.

 

“Glad to be down?”

 

“That was...quite something, your grace.”

 

“You did spectacularly well. I couldn’t even tell you were terrified.”

 

“I...was not ‘terrified’.”

 

She smirks. “Of course not.”

 

Riding Drogon came second nature to Daenerys. In fact, if the expression exists, it comes first nature, but Jorah is not their mother, nor a Targaryen. Glancing back at him for the first few minutes had been equal parts worrying and hilarious; his eyes wide, his body frozen, his fists clamped around Rhaegal’s spines, not daring to look down. Within half an hour, he had relaxed somewhat, and was staring at the land below with wonder. She had never seen such an open, unguarded emotion taking over his whole face before, and it made her blood pump even faster, the flight feel even more thrilling.

 

For a moment, she’d caught him looking over to the horizon, the world opening up around him as it was in his face, and she flew beside him, sharing his elation, sharing his terror, and she was reminded of flying with Jon, of finally getting to share this unique, wonderful, other-worldly experience with someone else. She was dizzy with it.

 

“Same again next week?”

 

He looks a little queasy, but, never one to back down from a challenge, he looks into Rhaegal’s amiable eye and says “Did you hear that? I shall see you next week.”

 

The armed guard that meets them at the gates brings Lord Tyrion with them, and he falls into step beside the Queen with an annoyed impatience she has come to associate with bad news, the clipping of her wings, almost.

 

“Your grace, I trust you enjoyed your leisure time?”

 

“Time spent with one’s children is hardly leisure time. It’s some of the most essential parts of life, is it not?”

 

“Forgive me, I only meant to observe that you seemed to have fun.” He turns to dip his head to Jorah. “Lord Mormont. It is good to see all of your limbs still attached. Is riding a dragon really so different from riding a horse?”

 

Jorah looks at him through narrowed eyes, but as ever keeps a serene expression of polite composure as he answers. “Quite different, my lord.”

 

“Yes, well duty calls, I’m afraid. I have summoned your litter.”

 

“I shall walk, I think.” Daenerys strides past Tyrion towards the city gates. A small crowd of citizens has already formed in the streets, her arrival announced rather efficiently by her dragons.

 

“ _Walk_?! Why on earth would you do that?!”

 

“I should be among my people every once in a while so they know I have not forgotten them. It is diplomacy.”

 

“My nephew was almost torn limb from limb when he once felt the same compulsion. Sansa Stark almost suffered worse during the same riot.”

 

“I am not nearly as hated as your nephew.”

 

Her guards, obeying the wary nod from Ser Jorah, fan out into the streets and clear a path. With Tyrion and Jorah on either side of her, she begins to walk in between the houses of the common folk towards her palace.

 

There are cheers that rise like the tide and wash over her just as refreshingly. A man hoists his child up onto his shoulder so she can see Daenerys as she waves at her. People reach out to touch her, and the vain glory of the saviour rises in her once more. She is not venerated because she was born noble, she is venerated because she is a liberator. 

 

As if on cue, the constant cover of cloud parts for a moment, bathing the high street in weak light. More people throng, swelling in cramped alleys and spilling into the road. She sees individual faces of those old and young alike, people she identifies to be Essosi among the Westerosi, men and women, rich and poor. Some look curious, some look confused, some look bitter, some look admiring, but she cannot see anyone who looks angry.

 

They call for Ser Jorah, she notices. A man hit his tankard with the hilt of his knife and shouts for House Mormont. People are chatting amongst themselves, and the hum of the population becomes a song, a melody of rustic content and the tuneful wind of lives intertwined. The city buzzes and sighs as she makes her way through the crowd.

 

It is only when she is approaching the final stretch to the castle that the hum becomes more recognisable.

 

She was not aware until she sensed Jorah tense beside her. He looks calm and collected, but she follows his gaze. A group of young men are singing loudly, but over the rest of the noise she can only just catch their tune. And it isn’t only their tune; the same words to the same melody seem to echo around her in concentrated patches of the crowd. The looks on the men’s faces are seedy, almost lascivious, but not in the way she is used to, not aimed directly at her.

 

_ From there to here, from here to there… _

 

She catches it on the breeze from another direction, but forces herself to look forward so as not to draw attention to the fact she has noticed.  _ What a strange song. It is somehow familiar, but it sounds like a tavern ditty they have all caught _ , she muses.

 

_ All black and brown and covered with hair _ …

 

More of her Queensguard wait at the bottom of the steps to the Keep. She stops to accept a wilting daisy from a little boy, standing with his blacksmith father. She shakes the hand of an old man as he thanks her for providing food to the homeless.

 

_ He smelled that girl on the summer air _ …

 

Tyrion is smiling tightly, but has perhaps heard the song too. She cannot tell if more people are joining in, or if it merely seems that way as she becomes more attuned to its sound. She cannot recall the lyrics, but she has a feeling she has heard it before. It seems a pleasant song, but it catches on her anyway.

 

_ The bear, the bear, and the maiden fair! _

 

Panic flashes across her mind before she can understand why. The people sing a silly rhyme for her, and she becomes wary! What sort of queen cowers at the drunk man’s tune? 

 

But she can tell something is off, even as she does not know the song, nor the words, nor what they mean. Ser Jorah falls back to guard her as she climbs the stairs, and she catches him glancing over his shoulder at the crowd. Tyrion slips closer to her, and even though she climbs faster than him, he keeps up.

 

As she enters the Keep, she turns back to wave at her people. A great roar rises from the streets. She sees people waving their arms, their hats, their cups, great beaming smiles and shouts of all tones and timbres, and above it all, drifting on the updraft, that same tune, swirling into her unwilling ears.

 

_ The bear, the bear, and the maiden fair! _

  
  



	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My God, we're on chapter 30 already. I can't believe it. This week is gonna be hell, so if any chapter is late I imagine it will be next week's. After that, around Christmas, it should get easier. I really hope you like this one, and thank you SO MUCH for sticking with me. I imagine this story will have around 40 chapters, just fyi.
> 
> And also, to entice you a little further, the rating is there for a reason so be aware of it in the coming chapters if that sort of stuff offends you (once again, why are you watching GoT then?).
> 
> Thanks! xxx

As the doors shut behind them, Tyrion and Jorah exchange a laden look. Daenerys glances between the two, irritated at being excluded from their non-verbal conversation.

 

“I imagine you’re quite tired after such a long walk. Perhaps a bath before dinner? We will need to be thinking sharply for the naval meeting with Ser Davos this evening.” He says to her, with forced brightness. 

 

“Right.” She says. She turns to Ser Jorah, but he has moved away to talk quickly and quietly with two of his men. She will ask him later, she decides.

 

She has taken to bathing in one of the bath chambers that line the thermal courtyard. It is apparently tradition for monarchs to wash in the toilet of their bedchamber but she prefers the Essos way of cleaning herself. The water is thermally heated, bubbling up through the foundations and slipping into the pools of the calm stone room. This is her private chamber, but there are others for guests to use. Once she has lowered herself into the water, she calls for Missandei.

 

 “I hope you are not overworked. There are surprisingly few people in the capital who can speak as many languages as you.”

 

Missandei laughs as she runs gentle fingers through Daenerys’ wet hair, rubbing the oil into the ends. This is a tradition neither of them wishes to let die, despite the flock of handmaidens at Deanerys' beck and call now.

 

“I am not overworked, your grace. It is good to be kept busy, and everyone is very respectful. I feel as if I am helping.”

 

“People should be respectful. I would give you a title if you’d allow me, but since you refuse you must come to me if anybody treats you as they did in Winterfell.”

 

“They were scared, and unused to outsiders. I do not blame them for their judgement.”

 

“They would have done well to show kindness to those who brought them salvation.” She says decisively. Missandei smiles despite herself.

 

“I am not so unusual to look at here. There are many from Essos in King’s Landing.”

 

“And you have time to spend with Grey Worm?”

 

“He is busy with the Unsullied for much of the day, but the evenings are our own. He is not placed on guard duty anymore.”

 

“He was not happy about that. He doesn’t see himself as above any other soldier, so tried to insist on a watch. I told him I needed him well-rested and content, and when I mentioned your name he was easier to persuade.”

 

“I am grateful for it, your grace.”

 

Daenerys smiles as Missandei rinses her hair with warm water.

 

“It is only fitting of his rank.”

 

“Ser Jorah still takes guard duty, does he not?”

 

Daenerys pauses. “Yes...but not regularly, and only ever near me. He feels happier when he can guard me himself, as he always has.”

 

_ And I feel safer knowing he is there _ , she thinks, but does not speak. She suspects Missandei hears it anyway; she has always known Daenerys’ mind.

 

She falls silent. Daenerys is reminded of her friend’s fierce intelligence.

 

“They sang a song today. In the streets. I didn’t know it, but it followed us to the Keep.”

 

“Do you remember any of it?”

 

Daenerys recites what few lines she can remember. Missandei’s hands slowly drop from her hair.

 

“I...do not know that song, I’m afraid. I have never heard it in Essos. Do you know the tune?”

 

Daenerys hums the melody that followed her.

 

“I recognise it slightly. I think one of the cooks was whistling it, or perhaps it was a chambermaid...or the stable boys. It is familiar anyhow, but I do not know it. I am sorry.”

 

“There is no need to be sorry. It’s probably nothing; just a popular tavern song. I was simply curious.”

 

As she rinses her own hair once more, and makes idle talk with Missandei, she feels the familiar swell of affection and ease that she has so sorely missed. They do not spend as much time together as she’d like, as they used to, but in these rare oases she feels more grounded, more hopeful, more human in her love for another, easy and reciprocated, twisting through their recent histories.

 

She wants to tell her about the day of Ser Jorah’s return. She wants to unload her confusion, to spread it out on the tiles before them so it is less daunting to examine with Missandei’s sure and critical eye beside her. But she doesn’t. She cannot say why; she is simply unable to will the words past her lips, like something so private and raw she cannot share it with her closest companion. Not yet, anyway.

 

“Will you and Grey Worm leave for Naath? He expressed his desire to visit.”

 

Missandei laughs, and it takes Daenerys by surprise.

 

“We would like to perhaps leave at some point, to see more of the world, but neither of us are under any illusions that our place is not with you. We will stay here, as long as you will have us, and make our home with you. There is no point in chasing the land we were born on when we hardly remember it, especially when we are needed and happy here.”

 

“I would not deprive you of your life. You must seek it if you want to, and not worry about me.” Daenerys turns to face her friend, holding her hand, sunning herself in her golden gaze. Gentle, wise Missandei, quiet and beautiful, fierce and brilliant. If she left, Daenerys would feel her absence acutely, but she loves her too much to suffocate her in shackles of obligation. 

 

Missandei smiles again, amused. 

 

“I will not take Grey Worm to Naath. It would be foolish for us to have fought this hard, only for him to die of the Butterfly Fever.”

 

“What is that?”

 

“A disease that plagues our island. Natives are immune, but visitors usually contract it if they stay for too long. This is how we are peaceful; conquerors die when they reach our shores.”

 

Daenerys has never even heard of this plague, but Missandei’s amusement makes her laugh.

 

“Perhaps not Naath, then.”

 

\- - - 

 

As she leaves the throne room that evening, having settled a land dispute between lords of Riverrun, both of whom scorned her but were just glad of an impartial governor to end the argument, she hears the song again in a corridor. It slithers round the corner with the serve who hums it before she can grasp the lyrics or identify the singer. 

 

“Ser Jorah, come with me for a moment, please.”

 

She speaks to him with such unnatural formality these days that she worries she is being too paranoid, and that people have noticed. She is paranoid about seeming paranoid.

 

He nods. He walks beside her, but she thinks better of walking him to her chambers. Instead, they head towards the library. 

 

“When we were walking through the city yesterday, you tensed when those people began to sing. I would know why.”

 

His brows lift, and she  _ knows _ he is going to feign ignorance. He is no great actor and she knows him well enough to tell when he is hiding something. Almost as if one step ahead of her, he drops the act before it even begins.

 

He sighs, but more exasperated than despairing, and glances up at the stone ceiling above them.

 

“A stupid tavern song,  _ khaleesi _ . One of the more popular ones from the North. Tasteless and vapid, but easy to catch, I suppose. It is nothing to concern yourself with.”

 

“It seemed to concern you and Tyrion.” 

 

He shoots her a glance and smirks.

 

“I forget how little slips you by.”

 

“Perhaps you shouldn’t strive to do so.”

 

“I meant only to filter away what was unimportant. I don’t want to add more stress to you unnecessarily.”

 

“I am your friend, but also your queen. I need to know things…and why would it add more stress?”

 

He sighs. He looks aggravated and even  _ embarrassed _ .

 

“The song mentions a bear.” She prompts.

 

He nods slightly. “Aye. ‘ _ The Bear And The Maiden Fair’ _ .”

 

“And what is it about?”

 

He does not falter in his step, but she sees the angled line of his jaw tighten. She has made him uncomfortable without meaning to. She thinks this cannot bode well. 

 

“It is a silly, vulgar thing, your grace.”

 

_ Vulgar? _

 

She halts in the corridor. She notices, for the first time, that her usual goldcloak escorts do not follow her when she is alone with Ser Jorah.

 

“I would know. Tell me.”

 

He sighs, but tries to stifle it.

 

“It is barely talk appropriate for palace walls. The song tells the tale of a maiden who states that she would never dance with a bear, for she is too pure. The bear then sets upon her, despite her squealing, but only to lick honey from her hair. She grows to love what seemed to attack her, but only desired sweetness.”

 

Daenerys’ eyes flicker. “I do not understand.” She says.

 

“It is intended to be appropriate to sing in front of children, but its true meaning is less than innocent.”

 

“Explain.”

 

“I...I am not necessarily the best person to-”

 

“Explain, Ser Jorah. Now.”

 

He cannot meet her eyes as he speaks. “The beast gives her pleasure where she expected cruelty. He was not attacking her, but rather caressing her. It is a crass metaphor.”

 

She looks at him a little longer, and he crumbles under her unspoken demand.

 

“The honey he licks is not the honey of bees. And the hair he licks it from is not that on the maiden’s head.”

 

She will need to hear the lyrics once more, but the understanding of what she has heard comes upon her like the removal of a mask.

 

The song echoes in her ears. She grows flustered, but for the wrong reasons. She thinks of her bear, and what would be her ‘honey’. She thinks of the wenches who sing this to the men who pay them for pleasure. She thinks of its raucous tune keeping men’s spirits up at night for the want of a woman. She thinks of the maiden giving in to the beast.

 

In the muddle of thoughts, one fact makes itself clear.

 

“And they sing it at us in the streets.”

 

“Aye.”

 

“As a joke?”

 

“Yes, a poor and unimaginative one.”

 

“You are a bear. By sigil.”

 

“...Yes.”

 

“And I, the maiden fair.”

 

“Perhaps.”

 

“Do they see your sigil and my colouring? Or do they read the story in our relationship?”

 

“Who can say? It is a ridiculous notion they have spun for themselves.”

 

“Not all that ridiculous.” She says, before she can stop herself. Ser Jorah glances subtly around them and guides her into the library. The huge, dusty room is empty. 

 

“I know I am not the most subtle in my... _affection_ for you. I feel sometimes as if I must scream it with my actions, with my words.” His speech is stilted within the quiet, dimly-lit chamber. He is too uncomfortable to meet her eyes. “But there is nothing to suggest that our dynamic is different than it has been for years. I follow you, and you lead me. That is how it is and how it has always been.”

 

“So why now? Why does this song rise now? I have been Queen for over a year.”

 

“I cannot say. Perhaps the glory you bestowed upon me after Dorne sparked interest from the people. Perhaps it is the common knowledge that Jon is leaving for Winterfell and you are remaining here.”

 

“Perhaps…” Thoughts rush through her head. Every indiscretion, every ounce of favour, every time she turned to him without thinking, dropped his title when referring to him out of habit, the servants that see him guarding her door, the men that saw him escort her to bed after the assassination attempt, the lords and maesters and squires who know how much time they spend alone together.

 

“We are not guilty of it, but we are not wholly innocent…” She says, distantly, without really thinking.

 

He swallows. She sees it. “They could not know about what happened on my return. Only you and I know of that, and we would not tell.”

 

“Tyrion spoke to me afterwards. I didn’t tell you for fear of worrying you over nothing…”

 

“What did he say?”

 

“He expressed concern at our closeness, and warned me that people despise a monarch they think is unfaithful to their husband or wife.”

 

“Does he...does he  _ think _ that-?”

 

“No, he said he knows the idea is absurd, but we should be wary of it.”

 

“And he said this to you…?”

 

“Just after I met you on your return.”

 

Jorah sighs. He runs his fingertips over his mouth as he thinks. Daenerys follows their progress with a distant stammer of confused excitement.

 

“That is very strange timing.”

 

“I know. An almost ridiculous coincidence, to have him say these things after…” 

 

She still cannot speak it out loud, but Jorah smiles conspiratorially at her, his eyes alight with the mischief of a shared secret, and only after admitting that it is amusing does she realise she is smiling right back at him.

 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He asks, softly serious once more.

 

“I did not wish to worry you.”

 

“I could have been more guarded, more careful, if I’d have known that Tyrion had picked up on the threat.”

 

“Altering our behaviour would have only drawn attention to ourselves. I thought it best if our relationship remained as it has always been.”

 

_ As it has always been _ . What a ridiculous notion. Their relationship has not been ‘the same’ since she emerged from Drogo’s pyre, since she toppled Meereen, since he found Daario Naharis leaving her bedchamber, since she banished him and he stubbornly returned, since he showed her his blistering arm and she knew he was dead, since he returned again, and once more from the grave on the battlefield of the Dead. Their relationship cannot be ‘the same’; it was hurtling forward, twisting and changing, growing and shrinking, since they met, all to bring them here, face-to-face in the Red Keep, talking of a kiss that was a decade in the making without daring to utter its name.

 

“I understand.” He says, genuinely, without ulterior motive or scorn or bitterness. He will protect her, and she will protect him, as their relationship has matured past the point of selfishness. 

 

“What shall we do?” He asks.

 

“We carry on as normal. We are aware of it now, and that will make us paranoid, but I will have to be more careful about how much affection and favour I show you, as people are clearly beginning to form their own impressions of the nature of our dynamic…”

 

The awkwardness is back. She hates being awkward with him as much as it thrills her. There should be nothing she cannot say to him after everything, and yet still some things are too delicate to be addressed directly. 

 

“Or perhaps they just like the song.” He says, breaking the tension, and her flutter of laughter leaves her as a sigh.

 

“Let us hope it is just that, but as Tyrion said, ideas are nearly impossible to kill, so the best we can do is stop feeding it, stop it spreading.”

 

To retract when they have been inching closer, soothing this strange itch in her, is not what she wants to do, but if it protects them both, she will do it. She nods, feeling a little bizarre standing in the quiet corner of the library in her regalia, with only books and Ser Jorah looking upon her. She feels appropriately melancholy, she decides. 

 

“Let us join the others before they start rumours that we’ve eloped.” She jests, and he chuckles as they turn to leave. At the door, she faces him again, her hand on the handle, and stretches up to press an impulsive kiss to his cheek, a token of affection that would have been commonplace, but now must be hidden. 

 

She thought it was an itch, but for a second as she moves away from him, from his strength and security, as he blinks warmly at her with familiar blue eyes, the itch is more like an ache. 

 

“I shall put someone else on guard duty for the foreseeable future, with your permission.”

 

She sighs. She anticipates more sleepless nights. 

 

“I suppose that is for the best.”

 

They step back into the light of the corridor together.

 

\- - - 

 

The rest of the week passes in a blur of self-scrutiny. She sees Jorah little, but is so busy with other duties that she mercifully hardly notices. The worst part is at night, when she is alone and he is in his room, too far away and yet not far away enough to stop her thinking. The tune plays in her head like she has a mental bard, the words dancing teasingly down her arms, across her stomach, taunting in her ears.

 

She’s never had dreams with such a straightforward effect on her. At least they are easy to understand, after a tirade of Melissandre of Asshai’s cryptic warnings. The song plagues her, and comes to life when she sleeps, and it is a confusing jumble of fur and silver hair and sweetness and sweat. Sometimes she is scared, sometimes she is impatient, sometimes she screams from fear and sometimes from joy. She wakes up with the familiar tingling at the base of her spine, temporary numbness in her arms and legs, that she recognises as the moments after a climax.

 

She starts awake after one such dream, irritated and unsatisfied, her mood made worse by the realisation of what the day ahead would hold.

 

Jon Snow is leaving for Winterfell, and she must see him off formally. She pulls her hand from out of her nightclothes.

 

She would much rather he slip through the gates without attracting too much attention, but Lord Tyrion insists that would look more suspicious, so she must assemble a guard, see him through the gates herself, and bid a heartfelt farewell to her beloved husband.

 

The more affection she shows him in public, the less she has to worry about the fact they have not shared a bed in many months. 

 

She is dressed and crowned and after a quick meal of fruit that does nothing to settle her stomach, she descends to the throne room and walks out onto the palace steps. She greets Ser Jorah with only a nod, but his smile is in his eyes, and she feels some comfort at that.

 

People have come to see something as mundane as a Stark leaving for Winterfell, just to catch a glimpse of their monarch. Jon looks uncomfortable but smiles a little stiffly as she approaches him, carrying his scabbard. 

 

She straps Longclaw to his hip, feeling its weight, its familiar shine, the wolf pommel that used to be a bear, and once it is done, she looks at him, and the confusing web of emotions that so often accompanies the sight of Jon is somehow more muted and manageable than it ever has been. He looks eager to force the city from his lungs.

 

“Travel safe, my husband, and give my well wishes to your sisters and brother. I hope all goes smoothly, and you return soon a happier man.”

 

He takes a knee before her and bows his head. “I will try, your grace.”

 

He stands and kisses her, and she feels the eyes of hundreds upon them from below. It falls strangely silent as he takes her in his arms and feigns passion that now cannot fool her. She kisses him back, if only to have him within her grasp for another moment before he leaves to retreat behind Winterfell’s walls.

 

They watch him walk towards the city gate, and once his party is out of view, Daenerys turns to retreat inside. 

 

The song is there again. At first she thinks she has imagined it, but as Ser Jorah falls into step beside her, the melody reaches their ears. It is different this time. It does not come from many sides, it comes from all sides.

 

The chorus rises amongst the people, almost unbelievable in its unity, and several goldcloaks reach for their weapons out of a confused sense of instinct. Daenerys turns to look. People are singing it with smiles on their faces, children are echoing the sound at street level, some seemingly oblivious, some with more clear intent.

 

A group of Fleabottom residents have pushed their way to the front of the crowd, and they are jeering as people will, likely made bold by several cups of ale, unafraid of punishment in the way that only those who have nothing to lose are not. Their faces turn to Daenerys as they sing. They look malicious, spiteful, jeering,  _ scornful _ …

 

“Now your wolf is gone, are you going to move your bear into your favourite kennel?”

 

“He’s finally left,  _ your grace _ , now you can show us the man you  _ really serve _ ! Right now! Go on!”

 

“How does the honey of a queen taste, Mormont? Your family must have been starved of it for centuries!”

 

“I’m a Northman, your grace, will you fuck me?”

 

The laughter rises again, the pitch causes her ears to ring and she cannot tell if it is happening in her city or in her head. She hears the shouts but they all bleed into the song, and the song bleeds into the shouts, and she hates herself for turning to flee. A man, a guard she thinks, takes her arm and steers her up the stairs. The guards at the crowd hold them back as they begin to rile themselves up. Ser Jaime is whispering something furiously to Ser Jorah, who looks pale. 

 

This is what she feared. She is a queen; what is she without the trust of her people?

 

The energy spreads, the fabric catches fire, the crowd fuel each other and begin to shout as one. Half of them don’t know what they’re angry about, but anger feels good in a majority. Daenerys knows how a fever spreads in a city, through the gutters and up into the houses, in the water and the air, the beer and the brothels, how it catches and doesn’t let go, how it becomes quicker and more deadly as it gathers hosts. The only way to quell it is to quarantine it, to starve and suffocate it like a doused flame. She feels sick with the accusation, sick with the connotations of their singing, sick with the knowledge that, on some level, they are right to be angry.

 

When she’s hurried inside, Lord Tyrion is striding across the throne room to meet them. His face is like a storm.

 

“Stay inside, we will end this.” He hisses. Shocked, a little afraid, Daenerys finds herself willing to obey him without question.

 

Jorah rushes between his men, giving them instructions in a terse voice. The disorder outside begins to fade, and she can only hear the faint strains of melody now, but she knows the damage is done. 

 

She turns to Tyrion, who regards her grimly, and she knows it is over.

 

He steers her up the stairs and into her solar. Then he rounds on her. Only when she turns to face him does she notice Ser Jorah is with them.

 

“The reason you appointed me your Hand was so I could advise you on matters you do not know enough about. You  _ gave _ my this pin so I can help and yet you ignore my warnings, and now  _ this _ has happened.” 

 

“Someone must be talking. Someone within the palace must be spreading lies. They want a reason to hate me, and they’ve found one they like, and that is all. There is  _ no _ truth to it!”

 

“Do you think they care for the truth?! They get an idea of corruption high up and it eats away at them like maggots, makes them angry and uncertain, and we cannot have these rumours fuelling anything that more powerful people could use against you. You never should have let Jon leave.”

 

“He would have withered here. At least now I know Sansa will be kept sated.”

 

“For a time. And if you’ve sent Jon, who you’ve turned coldly from, back into the warmth of his family, what if he decides his place is there, and they ally against us?”

 

“He would not do that. He is loyal, of all things he is loyal. This I know.”

 

“You cannot be taking these risks any longer. I thought you had an appreciation for the delicate balance of things at the top, but your unwillingness to dispel these rumours looks more and more like you actively encouraging them.” 

 

She should chide him for his tone, but his words ring too true for comfort and she is shaken from what she has witnessed. She feels Ser Jorah come up behind her. Out of the corner of her eye she sees him start to reach for her arm, and then think better of it and shrink back.

 

“You must leave, Ser Jorah, as soon as possible. Go North, as you planned. Re-establish House Mormont. Find a  _ wife _ .”

 

“I will not leave the Queen.” He says, and the conviction in it makes her ache even more.

 

“You may return once this has blown over, or at least cooled down, if you wish, but if you want the best for the Queen, you will save her reputation by leaving. In this current climate, any time the two of you spend together could be fatal to our campaign.”

 

“I can’t have him leave. I won’t sanction it.”

 

“He must, Daenerys, and you know it. He is a noble warrior and a worthy Lord Commander, but every moment in your presence and your favour chips away at his reputation. Go home. Rebuild it. Return when people have grown tired of the idea.”

 

“It would look twice as guilty, for me to flee overnight.”

 

“It would at least look like you hear them and understand their concerns. To leave for such a great distance also might cause them to doubt whether you are quite as entangled as they imagine. You couldn’t rip my brother from Cersei’s side when she was queen without putting him in manacles first. This voluntary separation might earn you some respect.”

 

“I...I…” She cannot think. She stands, and shivers.

 

“I will go.” He says. His voice stings her.

 

“Good man.” Says Tyrion. She turns to Jorah. He looks as pained as she feels, but his head is held high.

 

“He is right,  _ khaleesi _ , there is too much at stake. I cannot protect you if I am the problem. This is the best way to keep you safe.”

 

“I can protect myself. You  _ can _ protect me, ser, that is your  _ job _ …”

 

He smiles tightly. “I shall leave only as long as is necessary. I shall go home and build alliances for you, and when I get back, they will have forgotten my name.”

 

“This is all my fault. I showered you with too much praise, lesser men grow envious.”

 

“You have done  _ nothing _ wrong.” He says softly. 

 

“Your Grace, Ser Jaime wishes to speak with you on a matter of tactics.” A messenger says from the doorway. She looks from Tyrion to Jorah, and her self-preservation is drowned out by the screaming of her soul. They think she is untrue, just by having friends. She must pull herself away from the safety and companionship of her most trusted to placate a crowd that barely knows her.

 

She nods. “I will come. Ser Jorah, what you have offered is brave, and considerate, and I thank you for it. This is not your fault, yet still you must leave? It doesn’t seem fair.”

 

“It isn’t,  _ khaleesi _ , but it is what must be done.” He takes her hand, but only for a moment, and lets it slip between his own. She had been scared, but he is calm, he is assured and undaunted. Perhaps this will work, and then he can return, and this will all be over. He is wise, and she must trust him.

 

She leaves, but at the door, turns back to see Tyrion marching off in the other direction, leaving Ser Jorah alone in the courtyard.

 

He stands where he thinks she cannot see her, and lets his posture collapse. He rubs his eyes, pressing his face into his hand, sighing heavily enough to shatter glass, his expression harrowed. And then he stands upright once more. He straightens his spine, schools his features, grits his jaw. He closes his eyes, and when they are open, they are the usual resolute, resilient strength that she is used to. 

 

She sees, by mistake, a glimpse of his true torment, the person he hides from her for her own peace of mind.

 

She loves him, she thinks suddenly. She  _ adores _ him.

 

All this time, she has been a fool. She has been blind to what everyone else has seen.

 

Under the bright beam of realisation, it spreads from her chest into her veins, flowering and twisting like a plant, like a tree. It is alive and growing, present and beautiful, a precious thing to be protected, but with entrenched roots, weathered bark and a vast canopy reaching through her lungs. She sees that it has grown over time. It has been there for a long while, with no way of knowing when the seed was planted, but it has been flourishing, quiet and steadfast, for years, perhaps.

 

She loves him. She loves him so much the shock hits her like a physical blow, bringing tears to her eyes, and she feels ashamed, frustrated,  _ foolish _ for not noticing sooner. She feels breathlessly joyful, and then suddenly afraid. This does not bode well.

 

She cannot be without him now, she thinks, and yet she must. She cares for him so deeply that she berates herself for it, for allowing herself to pick up another emotional burden which will more likely than not cause her more pain.

 

She loves him.  _Of course_ she loves him. What has she been thinking?!

 

At least he shares it. At least now she knows how he has felt all these years. At least she is not alone.

 

It is difficult to label the intricacies of the emotion with certainty. It is not a sweeping, desperate desire as she felt with Jon, or a rugged and hardened respect-turned-romance as it had been with Drogo. It is also not the easy combination of lust and affection she had felt with Daario, which even now she is reluctant to call love. This is a much more difficult knot to untangle, the threads of it woven into their shared history so as to make complete separation of the strands impossible. It feels organic and enduring, terrifying and thrilling, safe and affirming, but still shadowy and as yet unknown.

 

She’s never loved like this. She may have loved hotter, harder, fiercer, gentler, with more desperate passion and more burning strength, but she has  _ never _ loved like this.

 

The thought terrifies her more than a thousand approaching  _ khalasars _ , a thousand mounted and manned scorpions, a thousand ferocious Cersei Lannisters. Her stomach is stone, her blood is fire, her will is steel, but her heart still beats, alerting her to all its tender spots and secret passages inwards. The tree growing in her lungs will not be ignored, and although she has unknowingly tended it, she must make sure it doesn’t suffocate her.

 

He is not to know, she decides, and she is not to dwell on it. She will accept her affection for him, her need for him, her trust in him, at face value, and be glad of his affection. That is all it needs to be, she thinks. A queen may love her friends. This is no fire that needs dousing. She will not die if she doesn’t take him as a lover, as she has ashamedly felt in the past about others. This desire runs deeper than flesh.

 

There is much to do, and little time to do it in. More important matters require her attention, and his action.

 

But she stops in the archway for a moment, looking across the small, insurmountable distance between them to where he stands among the fountains and flowers. She lets the thought sit in her heart just a little while longer.

 

She loves him, and at last she sees it, like emerging from a cave, blinking in the sunlight. 

  
  



	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took an extra week, but boy did I need it! Thank you for your patience, and hopefully the update schedule will return to somewhat normal now!
> 
> I've aged up the Manderly girls quite considerably, but it's my story and I do what I like. Also it is long, but that's because I only wanted Jorah and Dany to be apart for one chapter, so we had a lot to get through.
> 
> Merry Christmas xxx

He leaves a few days later. The singing that follows him out of the capital is quieter and more disparate than it was on Jon’s departure, and the idea that maybe this is the right thing infuriates Daenerys as she retreats back up to her room, alone.

 

—-

 

The road is long and cold. His heart wearies and weathers as he draws further away from the warmth of the South and the seat of his heart. Grassan Harlaw joins his party, intending to branch off as they reach the Riverlands, and as much as he can be irritating, Jorah is glad of a familiar face.

 

They encounter Dothraki in the Neck. They ride in small  _ khalasars _ , but he can already see that they are growing used to the new land. The horses they ride upon are thicker-set and shaggier; Westerosi mounts, probably stolen from villagers, and they are covered in pelts of Westerosi animals. After the crossing from Essos, most of the horse warriors had to adapt to following orders and staying disciplined; soldiers rather than nomads, but now they seem to be reverting to a more feral existence, and as much as it is a little terrifying, he is strangely happy to see how they change with the land they traverse. They come into contact with a larger horde, and Jorah rides up to their  _ khal _ and speaks in a tongue that comes back to him, stilted but familiar, of his role in the  _ khaleesi _ ’s conquest. His Dothraki needs practice, but he just manages to convince them that fighting his party would not be worth the Queen’s wrath, and they move on.

 

A month in, a huge shadow sweeps across the sky, and he turns his head to watch Drogon flying East. His movements are deliberate, but sombre, without the usual glee of freedom. He is alone, and Daenerys allows him free reign now that he has apparently learnt not to scorch villages, but he flies smoothly, as if just passing through on his way to his destination, rather than flying for the joy of it. Jorah wonders where he is going. 

 

He dreams of heat and hell, of the floor cracking open and snakes crawling out and covering the surface of the world. He dreams of the beating of a thousand approaching hooves, of burning from the inside out, of being blind, or deaf, or mute. He dreams in screams and songs, of being lost at sea. He dreams of red vapour, and a domed Dothraki tent in a wasteland. He wakes up with a raging fever.

 

“I can’t leave you now, you’re going to need all the help you can get if we’re to get you to the nearest town in time.” Says Grassan Harlaw from so  _ so _ far away, turning from the road to the Iron Islands towards the North. Jorah is carried, delirious, towards help. He doesn’t remember much, except that they were moving through the day and the night. They arrive in a Northern village and he is taken to a maester. The root he is forced to drink breaks his fever just in time.

 

“Death’s right behind you once more, but it can’t quite keep up.” Says Harlaw. 

 

Their party swells after that. Some of the Northern knights accompanying him take on squires in exchange for lodgings as they move further and further North. It is bitterly cold, but the air is clear and crisp, and Jorah begins, for the first time in years, to yearn for home. The anticipation builds; he shall be on familiar shores once more, after so long...

 

The North seems barren, and bigger than he remembers, its hills and moors stretching for leagues in every direction. After the Red Waste he thought he would never feel such purgatory again, but here, beaten by wind and with the chill settling in his heart, he feels neither joyous nor sorrowful, neither angry nor at peace. He feels little, speaks little, and continues onwards, upwards, towards the harshest part of their world, and his ancestral home couched against the cold of it.

 

They lose four men to illness, to the winter, before they reach the coast.

 

He speaks to a fisherman; a man of few words, who is initially sceptical when Jorah tells him who he is. The man tears at a hunk of hard bread with his yellowing teeth and peers closer at Jorah’s face, with no concern for his personal space. He sees something there that satisfies him. He leans backwards, chews, and nods. 

 

“Stay here. I’ll sail ahead to the island and tell ‘em.”

 

The ale in the coastal tavern is poor quality, but Jorah supposes he has grown accustomed to a finer way of life. He wonders how much of his Northern blood remains in the wake of losing almost all of it.

 

They wait for longer than he expected to. When the fisherman returns, he looks even grimmer than he had when they first met. 

 

“You’re to come alone.”

 

“Why is that necessary? These are my men, and that is my island.”

 

“I am not taking you all over. These are my orders.”

 

“Whose orders?”

 

“Astris Forrester.”

 

“Who?”

 

“You’re the last Mormont, and you’ve been gone. House Glover gave your island to her as a reward for her loyalty.”

 

“It was not House Glover’s to give.”

 

“It was theirs for the taking, and Deepwood Motte is the nearest seat of nobility.”

 

He will not be given orders on his own land. He turns to Grassan Harlaw.

 

“I will bring him.”

 

Wary or tired, the fisherman concedes. 

 

His boat is little more than a dinghy, and the waters are rough, but when the jagged corners of his homeland emerge over the dreary horizon, he feels a flutter of something in his chest; more than he has felt in weeks. 

 

The crust of Bear Island rises abruptly from the tormented water. Its heaped mass is still thick with green; the trees that grow there do not drop their leaves nor lose their colour. Snow buries the beaches in a coating of white that could, from a distance, be sand. The trees carve a serrated silhouette against the grey sky, and though covering most of the land, the forest seems thinner. It stands where it stood for his whole life; resilient and enduring in an uninhabitable vista.

 

His lungs burn as he breathes in the cold, salty air.

 

Under the ground there are whispers and amongst the trees there are ghosts. They move in silence towards Mormont Keep, pine needles softening their footfalls. Harlaw had spoken about bears on the voyage over with equal parts interest and trepidation, and from the way he glances around, Jorah would wager he is afraid they may be ambushed by one. Jorah’s instincts have not deserted him entirely; there are no bears near, and of this he is certain. He wonders if their population has suffered from the winter.

 

The Keep is almost exactly as he remembers it. The stable has been extended and there is new guttering along the roof of the East Wing, but it sits as it always has; stalwart, a little ugly, but promising respite from the weather. The mullioned window of the hall glows; they await him.

 

Walking through the corridors brings him less nostalgia than he anticipated. He moves on muscle memory, turning corners and knowing what he will find, even stepping on a floorboard he knows will creak. It’s as if he never left, as if the castle has opened and swallowed and settled to welcome him back, but all of this feels distant and numb, like a bee being lured into a honey trap. 

 

He is received in the Great Hall. Having spent so much time in the Red Keep, it seems small, dusty and grim. The grandeur of the Mormonts was always in endurance and pragmatism, not grace or beauty, he thinks.

 

Astris Forrester sits upon the high chair that his father used to inhabit, but she sits as if she garners no pleasure or pride from it, as if it were merely any other chair. She watches him approach with a stern, bored expression.

 

He bows. He is a guest in his own house, and yet he bows.

 

“Lady Forrester, I presume?”

 

“I’m no lady.” She says. She is a wiry woman, with shoulders too large for her narrow hips. Her hair is black, and cut short, and her face is hardened and angular. She observes him through hooded eyes, deep-set in a pale face that is all jutting cheekbones and heavy jaw. He has never seen her before. He has never even  _ heard _ of her before.

 

“Astris, then?”

 

“Aye, if it please ye to address me.”

 

She speaks with a rough Northern tongue and slouches over the arm of the chair.

 

“I am surprised to find you in my house.”

 

“I am surprised to see you alive.”

 

“The Mormonts are not gone yet.”

 

“And this is what the lords of Bear Island have to show for centuries of warriors? An old man with dragons round his wrists?”

 

He doesn’t look away from her in shame, as he assumes she wants him to. He doesn’t even blink.

 

“I am afraid so. Old I may be, but Mormont I am nonetheless. This is my castle, and I have come to reclaim my birthright.”

 

“As I recall, you were disowned by the last lord of Bear Island.”

 

“Aye, and now Lyanna and her side of the family are gone, I am all that is left. It is my right and responsibility to take up my father’s seat.”

 

She sighs. She turns to look at a woman standing behind her; huge and ginger, who has not taken her gaze from Jorah since he entered.

 

“Your island is cold. It is dreary and infertile. All it offers is wood, fish and bear pelt. It was gifted to me, and so it is my prize, but I am not particularly attached to it. Our families have been allies for generations, and I know many of the people I am responsible for here would much rather see you sitting here than a mainlander. I’d be a fool to risk a rebellion for a patch of land I have no love for.”

 

He follows her reasoning with interest. When she pauses, he feels her hard look like a needle through his flesh.

 

“But words spreads even up here. You are dedicated to our new lord and master, Queen Daenerys, are you not? Lord Commander of her Queensguard, if I remember right?”

 

“That is true.”

 

“Why have you travelled so far from her side? Was your pride chafing after serving a little girl for so long?”

 

He tries, and fails, to hide how he bristles.

 

“Of course not. I serve the Queen because I believe in her, and she has redeemed me. It is my duty, but my duty to my house compels me to return here. It is a compulsion she has agreed to.”

 

“So, you will not stay? You will return to her once you’ve made sure we are not planning a rebellion?”

 

_ She is an astute one _ , he thinks bitterly. 

 

“I will stay here as long as I am needed. If that is forever, then so be it.”

 

It is a small lie, but his heart tugs him South even now. To swear himself to the North and abandon Daenerys is something that goes against his very being.

 

“And your beloved queen does not mind this?”

 

He has mastered the art of betraying nothing when people prod at his affection for his  _ khaleesi _ , and now blinks her accusation back at her.

 

“She has agreed that it is my responsibility.”

 

“Well, were you to leave, you would have accomplished little, no? The call of your dragon would bring you South once more and I would have to take up the mantel here and we would have wasted everyone’s time.”

 

“I intend to re-establish my house-”

 

“Marriage, then? Alright, Lord Mormont.” She looks engaged now. There is a spark of malice in her eyes that churns Jorah’s stomach.

 

“You wish to continue House Mormont? I don’t blame you, but you won’t be doing that on your own. Find a wife, ser, and then I’ll consider handing you your seat back.”

 

She has him in her talons. He considers that being at the mercy of powerful women is an increasingly prevalent habit of his. She reminds him, fleetingly, of his fierce little cousin, and his heart aches, and then hardens with resolve.

 

“Aye, I’ll find a wife.”

 

\- - - 

 

He isn’t in his old chambers, but instead in the wing reserved for guests, and his room is small and a little damp, but he can smell the pine trees, and the tapestries lining the walls are so familiar, that he feels something in him settle at the knowledge that he is back once more.

 

_ “Why don’t you ask Astris, my lord?” _

 

_ “I’ve met her once, Grassan.” _

 

_ “Hardly matters. It seems like it would solve both of your problems. And she ain’t that bad to look at. If she put on a dress I reckon she’d look like the beauties they used to get in from Volantis.” _

 

_ “I don’t care what she looks like, I won’t marry her. And I doubt she’d have me.” _

 

_ “So who will you marry?” _

 

_ “I don’t know.” _

 

_ “Well, unless that magic gave you some new blood, you shouldn’t wait too long.” _

 

_ “Thank you for your opinion.” _

 

_ “I am trying to help.” _

 

_ “Well, as I am quite recovered, feel free to return to the Iron Islands.” _

 

_ “If that’s what you want, my lord.” _

 

_ “I’m going to stay here for a while, but I have business to negotiate in White Harbour, and I’ll probably stop in Winterfell.” _

 

_ “I’ve always wanted to go to Winterfell…” _

 

_ “Come if you wish. Leave if you wish. I do not have time to worry about you.” _

 

As irritating as Grassan can be, he is a welcome break from the quiet that he used to crave, and that now sits oddly against him. The island is sombre as ever, but with fewer people than before, and without the booming voice of his father, his boisterous aunt and uncle, the children he used to play with. He is within and without, home and as far from it as he can get, and he cannot sit still in an atmosphere so unsatisfying.

 

He continues on. He meets men he knew in his youth, still working in the armory, or living along the coast. He traverses old hunting grounds, and gets back aboard the small boat he was taught to sail in. One day when the sun peaks through the cover of grey, he spends all of it tracking bears through the forest. Some of the servants are even the same, or children of those he remembers. He is pleased at least that people seem somewhat happy to see him. Or to see a Mormont, that is. 

 

Now, when he dreams of Daenerys and the tent, just as he carries her inside and everything goes dark, he finds himself staring down the muzzle of a bear, terrified to meet its amber eyes.

 

\- - - 

 

Daenerys must finally accept that she will not sleep well if she is without her knight.

 

Her days pass like the sound of dripping. A constant, irritating drip, like a leak inside her head, distracting her in her duties, imbuing her character with impatience, accompanying that which used to bring her joy. Even her dragons cannot rid her of the sensation.

 

Perhaps she is unwell.

 

It is easy to ignore something when it is not present. Kept busy by her duties, her advisors, her people and her children, there is precious little time in the day to mope or dwell, for which she is distressingly grateful. She doesn’t think about her own vulnerability, the instability of a rule based on a sham marriage, or the polluting power of a rumour. She doesn’t think of these things, because they are not immediately apparent.

 

She does think of Ser Jorah, though. She thinks of kissing him in moments of silence, and it squeezes her throat shut and boils her stomach in a taunting, addictive kind of painful pleasure. She thinks of the song, of how people understood when she thought she was being discreet, of Tyrion being right about almost everything, except the one thing that matters. She thinks angrily of women that might want to marry the last Mormont, even though she cannot marry him, and she has given him her blessing to find a wife. She thinks of what she realised before he left, and how tender and delicate her heart suddenly is. She thinks idly of his face, his pale eyelashes and square jaw, his deep voice and strong shoulders, the lines on his forehead and the rough calluses on his hands. She would be embarrassed, she thinks, if she thought these things a few years ago, but now they keep her going, like the strongest and most expensive wine.

 

“And what of Ser Jorah?” She adds to the end of her small council meetings, as a calculated afterthought, that only Tyrion seems to pick up on.

 

“He has reached Bear Island, and has informed us it is under the rule of a Forrester maid.” Says Varys.

 

“It is under Mormont rule, as long as their house lives. We must help him reclaim it at once.”

 

“According to my little birds, there is no need. She seems to be a congenial host and has offered him terms. He may have his homeland back, if he finds a suitable wife.”

 

Her blood runs momentarily cold, although, as a married woman herself, it is an eventuality she has had many moons to attempt to adjust to.

 

“Is she seeking to marry him herself?”

 

“Apparently not. She is not of that persuasion, your grace, if rumours are to be believed. Either way, she has never entertained male suitors, and so is unlikely to be manipulating him in this way.”

 

“Then they are strange terms to ask him to meet.”

 

“She is an eccentric, and somewhat bored of the island, so I hear. She wants to avoid angering people by denying him, but I suppose she doesn’t want to waste time by giving her new land to a dying house without assurances. Or perhaps she thinks he won’t take a wife, and she will get to keep the island.” Lord Varys speaks melodically as ever, wrapped in more layers of fabric than usual to combat the cold, and once more Daenerys wonders at his ability to speak this information without consulting any notes. 

 

_ Perhaps he is making everything up _ , she thinks idly.

 

“By doing this peacefully she will have earnt House Mormont’s allegiance. Their name commands more respect than Forrester, at the moment.” Adds Tyrion.

 

“So he is searching for a wife?” She hears herself say from somewhere leagues above her own body.

 

“It appears so. He has travelled to White Harbour to negotiate fealty to you and discuss trading routes, and will pass through Winterfell. A Northern lord, back from the dead, Lord Commander of your Queensguard, still strong and brave, laden with honours and friends with some of the most powerful people in the kingdom; I don’t think he will have much trouble finding someone interested.”

 

“And he will stay North with her?”

 

“That is up to him, but if he does, we will have to reconsider his position here. He cannot guard you from Bear Island.”

 

\- - - 

 

When he arrives at Winterfell, he expects to be greeted by Sansa Stark, but it is Jon who meets him at the gates, with an awkward but genuine manner. He tells Jorah that his sister is at Pyke, and seems keen to leave it at that, so Ser Jorah decides to find out why in a more subtle way than pressing the matter.

 

The castle is marginally warmer than most strongholds of the North, but a blizzard that blows in keeps him there a week longer than he intended. This leaves many short, dark days to spend some quality time with Jon Snow, a man of whom Jorah has few strong opinions other than the fact he is married to the woman Jorah has been in love with for the last ten years. The respect for Jon that was cultivated after the Battle of Winterfell has matured and settled easily in their dynamic, but just because he likes him well enough does not mean he wants to pursue a friendship with him. 

 

All seems calm in Winterfell, with the locals too focused on keeping themselves warm, fed and alive to mutter about rebellion. After two weeks, Ser Jorah feels comfortable enough in this evaluation that he writes to Daenerys to reassure her of Jon’s loyalty. Although he guards his words closely, he cannot help but feel his letter drips with affection and longing. As he writes her unnecessary pages of personal experience in what should be a straight-foward report, he allows himself space to wallow in how much he misses her. He tells her of Bear Island, its harsh beauty, the servants he remembers and the strangeness of being North after so long, and with no army impeding his nostalgia. He writes of everything except how hard he feels their distance, but his words fit themselves around the hole that leaves. This separation for her own sake aches in the core of him, somewhere deep enough that he can ignore it when he is not alone and thinking about her reading his hand.

 

The raven leaves with his letter, and he leaves for White Harbour two days later, as the weather improves.

 

\- - - 

 

_ “A letter came for you from Winterfell, your grace.” _

 

_ “It will be for Tyrion, not me. Jon sends him the reports.” _

 

_ “It is not from the Prince, your grace,  It is from Ser Jorah.” _

 

_ “Bring it to me.” _

 

She pores over his words. He speaks of Bear Island, and she reads in his sentiment how happy he is to be home. People remember him, he remembers them, he is travelling in his lands once more, now a knight, now a lord, now a commander, and she wonders if he feels complete, like he has finally come full circle.

 

_ He will never return to me now _ , she thinks.

 

The hope she had been kindling that maybe he would hate the North’s bleakness, that he would miss her so much, that he would come back sooner, or even at all, flickers and shrinks as she reads the letter. 

 

_ You have lost him _ …

 

He’s got everything he needs, everything he’s always wanted, and he even has her affection, her admiration, her kiss, and now he wants to go home and claim his land. After everything, he could so quickly abandon her.

 

_ He promised he would never leave me. He swore an oath to stay by my side _ …

 

Only until she was Queen, however. She is Queen now. His work is done. He wants a life outside of being her bodyguard, and that is to be expected.

 

_ He said he loved me. He said there was no one else. He crossed deserts and oceans to be with me. He almost died countless times. He  _ did _ die for me. Why does he turn cold now? Why must he write me these words of love and wonder for the North when he knows I need him here, I  _ want _ him here… _

 

Isolated and with precious little information, she feels herself turning bitter. 

 

_ How dare he leave me? He is going to find a wife! Why does he need a wife when he has a queen?! _

 

She reads his words again: “ _ I feel I have missed the cold, after so long being hot. Worlds that seemed hostile are home to me. I suppose I seek out the beautiful and the distant.” _

 

She thinks of him, astride his horse, his head held high, surrounded by bear banners, with a beautiful Northern wife and the cold, cold wind on his face. 

 

She cannot bring herself to burn the letter, but finds that she wants to.

 

\- - - 

 

White Harbour is merry, despite everything. When he arrives at New Castle, Lord Wyman Manderly welcomes him with open arms, and he finds himself embarrassed at such a show of hospitality. 

 

He is greeted by the family in Merman’s Court. Its unusual decor of wood and sculpted sea creatures make it hard to quell his curiosity. Ser Wylis Manderly is portly and quiet, shaking Ser Jorah’s hand with a firm grip and yet averting his eyes in a betrayal of his social discomfort. His wife, Leona, holds his arm and bows her blonde head to Jorah, smiling warmly.

 

He meets their daughters next. Wynafryd, passed girlhood and good-looking in an unobtrusive way, scans Ser Jorah carefully before curtseying. Her eyes are sharp and the turn of her mouth is defiant. Her sister, Wylla, younger but similarly no longer a girl, has a shock of green hair, plaited like her sister’s over one shoulder, but so garish in colour that Jorah has to stop himself from staring.

 

She tilts her chin up as she greets him, and curtseys more quickly. He is not offended; it is a formality, and he cares little for formalities.

 

Lord Wyman, old, infirm and enormous, sits down heavily in his wheeled chair when the greeting is done with. He calls in his booming voice for Jorah to follow him.

 

He is shown around the castle as they discuss smaller matters such as their houses’ history and the new queen. Water runs through the castle like tears; channeled through indoor rivers, falling through fountains and collecting in pools, a reminder of how the town brought about its wealth and influence. Mermaid statues that vary from beautiful to grotesque stare down at Jorah from almost every entryway, bannister and pillar, their eyes beady or alluring or glittering with inlaid precious stones. The castle feels alive, with servants rushing around, and smiling at their master as they past, and Wyman pauses on a balcony, overlooking the bustling town, to ruminate on the Starks, and their rise, fall and second rise. 

 

By the time Jorah is shown to his room, he is exhausted. The smell of seawater is strong here, unlike in King’s Landing where it is almost covered completely by the smell of rotting food and dung and alcohol and people. The walls of his room are damp and cold but the sky is clear and he breathes in deeply as he considers the sea view he has been assigned. He will negotiate new trade routes with the capital and, if he plays it right, with Meereen as well, and only then will he allow himself to write to Daenerys once more; after he has succeeded.

 

She has not written back, he thinks gloomily. Perhaps she is too busy. Perhaps she meant to and it slipped her mind. Perhaps she hasn’t given him a second thought.

 

Dinner is a jovial affair, with Lord Wyman’s good humour lasting as long as dessert, when he excuses himself to go to bed.

 

“He always retires early. He grows ever older.” Explains Wynafryd.

 

“I shall be in my grave before my father is.” Says Ser Wylis, his tongue and spirits loosened by wine. He raises his goblet in a sardonic toast to the prevailing health of his father, and takes a deep swig. His wife laughs beside him.

 

“And then it will be one of my daughters who rules White Harbour. I shall never sit upon the chair.” He continues. 

 

“Perhaps it is time one of us did.” Says Wylla. He has discovered that she and her sister have wit enough to take on Tyrion, or at least take him aback for a moment. They wear velvet gowns of the same flowing cut and blue-green colours of the mermaids Jorah keeps seeing carved into furniture, painted onto walls and formed out of glass in windows. 

 

He learns that they were both betrothed to Freys, but their willingness to cooperate under Tommen Baratheon was a front held by Lord Wyman, who like his granddaughters had always remained loyal to the Starks. The family had been brave in the chaos of war, and Jorah admires their conviction. Wylla had spoken out against the Freys and the Boltons, and from what Jorah can gather from Jon and Sansa’s accounts, they were quite the power to oppose.

 

“You were not here during the Bolton occupation of Winterfell then, Ser Jorah?” Asks Wynafryd.

 

“No, I was not. I was in Essos.”

 

“Helping another Southern heir to take over the whole kingdom?” Asks Wylla. She disapproves. Jorah makes a mental note of this.

 

“Helping the true heir to the Iron Throne raise three dragons and conquer and liberate three slave cities.” He fills in. 

 

“You were banished for slavery, were you not?” Her voice is high and light, not quite as melodic as a mermaid’s, but somewhere close. It makes everything she says sound casual and conversational, which is an ability he makes sure to watch out for.

 

“Aye. Poachers on my land. I had no money and no will to execute them. It was a crime I believe I have suffered my punishment for.”

 

“How?” Asks Wynafryd. She seems less keen to butt heads with her guest; her eyes are genuinely curious.

 

“I fought as a slave myself in the fighting pits for a year or so. I was bought and sold, flogged and starved, forced to kill and almost killed myself. I think I have definitely seen the error of my ways. There was also a bout of greyscale.”

 

The table lurches under Ser Wylis’ grip as he swings round almost comically to look at Ser Jorah. His terror morphs into furious suspicion.

 

“I can assure you, I am no longer contagious. If the sickness was still active I would be dead by now, or as good as.”

 

“How...how did you get rid of it?” Asks Wynafryd. Even Wylla looks interested. 

 

“I got lucky. A young maester at the Citadel attempted a very dangerous cure, and it worked.”

 

“You are certainly a fortunate man. Falling into disgrace and exile, and now look at you: lord of your house, commander to the Queen, and greyscale-free.” Laughs Ser Wylis.

 

Jorah smiles once more at cosmic irony as he sips at his own drink.

 

After dinner, he walks with Wynafryd around the gardens. She asks him about Daenerys, with admiration in her voice despite her family’s misgivings concerning southern houses, and he speaks of his queen with as much restraint as he can muster. She is personable, if a little cold, and she is respectful, if a little proud. As the night draws on she relaxes in his presence, and he relaxes in hers, and their conversation is pleasant, almost friendly. He learns of her actions during the War of the Five Kings, her resistance towards a Frey marriage, her sister’s outspoken bravery, their plot to free Ser Davos. When she smiles genuinely it is warm, when she laughs genuinely it is loud, and there is a faint aura of agreeability about her person, like a small glow, that he supposes is attractiveness. He goes to his room thinking well of the Manderlys of White Harbour.

 

In the night, he cannot sleep. The sound of running water makes him anxious, and he is plagued by half-dreamt visions of red and dust and horses and dragons. He is struck, in the darkness, by a sense of entrapment, of a fate he cannot escape, and the grip of the future closing around him tighter than ever before.

 

_ What am I heading towards? Where am I going? What will I do if it turns out I do have to live forever? _

 

He retreats downstairs in search of fresh air and something to settle his uncharacteristic nerves.

 

A sleepy servant brings him a mug of beer and he swallows it half-reluctantly on the veranda. A high, cold voice startles him.

 

“The coachmen say you returned from the dead.”

 

He turns to look at Wylla as she approaches him. She is in a purple and silver bedrobe, pulled tight against the cold. Her green hair is loose.

 

“You speak with the coachmen?”

 

“Clearly they have all the interesting information.”

 

“I told you how I returned from the dead.” He finishes his drink and sets the mug down on the baluster.

 

“Not that.” She watches him. He feels her gaze like a heavy cloak being dropped over his shoulders. “The fight with the Dead. We lost many men that night. I lost several cousins. And you lost your life, apparently.”

 

“Coachmen gossip. They have to entertain themselves somehow.”

 

“They say you took a dozen blows from the Dead, defending Daenerys Targaryen. And then you came back again. Is there truth to this?”

 

He looks at her carefully, keeping his expression neutral.

 

“Magic would not spare the likes of me. I hold little importance. Yes, I defended my queen, as I am sworn to do, but as you can see, I did not die doing so. Bear Islanders do not go down easily.”

 

She smiles a little, and releases him from her pinning gaze. “That I can believe.”

 

There is silence for a moment, and Jorah sighs. He would rather face restless sleep than be grilled any further, but he does not wish to seem impolite.

 

“Are you in love with her?” She asks suddenly. 

 

There is no doubt who she is referring to. Jorah is too tired to work up a denial that sounds plausible.

 

“She is my queen. I would give her my life if that’s what it took to keep her safe.” He says simply, finally, truthfully.

 

She looks, for a moment, a lot younger in her curiosity, but then an expression of genuine pity sweeps across her pale face. She gazes out to sea.

 

“She is married, and soon you shall be too.”

 

It is his turn to look at her. His furrowed brow speaks his confusion.

 

“Oh, come on, ser, half the North is talking about it. You need a wife. A lady of Bear Island. I know many a keen maid with their sights set on you. You are handsome for a twice-dead man.” 

 

He laughs at the compliment. 

 

“Did you hope to find one here?”

 

He swallows. It has been so long since he did this dance.

 

“I did not know what I hoped for.”

 

“Did you expect to find one here?”

 

“I did not know what I expected.”

 

“You are a dull conversationalist.”

 

“So I have been told.”

 

“Perhaps this is why you have not found a woman yet.”

 

“According to your account, I shouldn’t have much trouble.”

 

“Then you are not searching? You cannot bring yourself to.”

 

“I have been married twice. I did not think there would be a third.”

 

“And there is only one woman you want.”

 

He gives her a look of warning. His brow draws over blue eyes, and Wylla pauses, then shrinks, then hardens.

 

“They tried to marry me to a man I didn’t want. Plot or no plot, I was a bargaining chip in the grand scheme of things. No more. I will be active in my own future from now on.”

 

“What do you want?”

 

“I wanted New Castle. I want to be recognised and bowed to. I want to rule, but I am the second sister. I am not the heir to White Harbour. I must start being active now, I think.”

 

“So that means…?”

 

She smirks at him. In the cold moonlight she is siren and sea monster both. He is flooded with respect for her intelligence, and her sensitivity.

 

“You need a wife, I need a ladyship. It seems we know what must be done.”

 

\- - - 

 

Ser Jaime and Ser Brienne wed under softly-falling snow in the Dragon Pit of King’s Landing. The ceremony is small and without extravagance, on the request of both parties. Lord Tarth looks as if he cannot believe what he is witnessing. When Brienne approaches Jaime, radiant in white, his eyes fill with tears, and Daenerys sees Tyrion’s do the same beside her.

 

The pair speak their vows in fractured whispers, as if they are struggling to comprehend that they are saying them, and hearing them in return. They are breathless with joy and dizzy with love, and Daenerys feels somewhat ashamed, as if she is intruding on something so private and yet she is so happy she could almost get giddy off the proximity. She has never liked weddings, after her first, and yet this feels less like a formal ceremony and more like an affirmation of something sacred and strong and beautiful, built over many years and in spite of many hardships.

 

She wishes Ser Jorah was there. He would share this feeling. He would reflect it back at her. She could find him after the ceremony and make it about her, and he would listen and not find her egocentricity reprehensible, but rather understand that she will only share her introspections with him. 

 

She daydreams of him watching Brienne and Jaime kiss, the former having to stoop to reach her husband’s lips, holding each other and beaming with joy and adoration and validation and hope for the future. She thinks he would glance at her and hope she wouldn’t notice. She thinks he would smile slightly, his eyes would go distant, he’d lose himself for a moment and then be right there are they moved on to the feast, beside her to share a dry comment or secret joke, behind her to give her support as she toasted their honest and open romance, and in front of her as he walked her back to her chambers. She thinks she’d perhaps tell him, then, as they would ruminate idly on marriage, on her own, on Brienne and Jaime’s enduring relationship holding parallels to theirs. She thinks she’d say ‘well love does endure’, or ‘there is nothing more I can learn of love’, or ‘if I had married you, I would have spoken to you as they spoke to each other’, or even more simply ‘I love you, my knight, and you must promise you are mine’. 

 

But none of this will happen, because her wasted heart pines for a man who is leagues away from her.

 

_ He will return. He will always return. If I learn anything from Brienne and Jaime, it is that love is patient, and you will always find each other again. You cannot stop something like this when it is in motion, and so long in the making. _

 

At the feast, Lord Varys catches her eye. She rises wearily from her chair, accepting the bows from the noblemen flanking her as she leaves, and asks him what is wrong.

 

“News from my little birds, your grace. From the North.”

 

He hands her a slip of parchment and she tears it open. She reads the lines several times before they sink in. She slips from her body and reads them once more, detached, from several feet above.

 

_ The bear knight, Ser Jorah, is to wed Wynafryd Manderly, eldest daughter of the heir to White Harbour. _

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is mature-rated, so be pre-warned x


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wooooooo! Happy New Year (not quite yet though!) Enjoy this chapter as I panic-write my dissertation. 
> 
> This will be lovely for some and not so lovely for others. The majority of this chapter is from Daenerys' perspective, just to remind you, so I write as her.
> 
> I had so much fun with this one, although it's not my usual thing. I hope you like it xoxox

She does the right thing, she thinks. She sits high on her throne, above her kingdom, and waits patiently for the letter from Ser Jorah. She waits for the letter telling her of his intention to marry.

 

She waits, with hands curled around the armrests, with her back rigid, with her teeth gritted, with her stare a million leagues away, with her head set upright and her breathing terrifyingly calm. Her posture would seem regal to anyone that didn’t know her well enough.

 

She sits and seethes for months. She tells herself she is overjoyed, that there will be more Mormonts in the world, a world that so desperately needs them. She tells herself that she doesn’t picture this Manderly woman’s face immediately after her mind inevitably wanders to Jorah’s. She does  _ not _ think of how Jorah looks at her, like he looks at his queen, like he looks at the woman he loves.

 

She has not spent so much time with Jorah to remain blind to his character; he is loyal. She knows he will always be on her side, but if his honour called him first and foremost to the side of another; would he  _ really _ put Daenerys, a woman who has used his affection and discarded his love, before his own wife?

 

The letter doesn’t come. She hears  _ nothing _ . For all she knows they have married in secret and she sits like a fool waiting for a man who will never return.  _ Surely _ he would tell her if his intentions were to remain on Bear Island?  _ Surely _ he would want her there, when he married, or at least extend her an invitation? But no. For a whole  _ month _ she hears nothing from him. No news of the North, no descriptions of Bear Island, no whisper of Wynafryd Manderly. He is to be a husband once more, and he has not even thought to tell her.

 

Lord Varys brings her more news. He has travelled back to Mormont Keep without his betrothed; presumably she will follow after. He is on the road but he is not alone and he is not under threat, so why does he still not write?

 

He sits at home, thinking of his future family, and not of her. She doesn’t know what to do with the feeling this information gives her. She cannot see or taste or name the emotion that leaves a dent in all of her days. She is as obsessed with the concept of his marriage as she is repulsed by it. And to think it once gave her joy to picture him finally happy with a family of his own.

 

_ You are a selfish, stupid brat, who only wants something when she can no longer have it.  _ She berates herself every night, alone with her thoughts and her dreams of the tent, which plague her now more than ever, riddled with anxiety and tears and more blood than she remembers.

 

She is sad, dispassionate, weary and vulnerable, for a few weeks, but Daenerys Targaryen has never and will never  _ mope _ . She does what comes most naturally when faced with an emotion that could weaken her; she becomes angry. 

 

Rage distills in her core. It begins with random outbursts, no more dignified than tantrums, where she is finally alone in her chambers and she is compelled to break things. Whatever is nearest, be it a vase or a mirror or a wine cup or even jewellery; she hurls it across the room, out onto her balcony, against a wall, anything just to hear it shatter. She feels a little better afterwards, and often manages to fend off the tears.

 

Sometimes there will be good days where she doesn’t feel anything, and then, once alone and free of her duties, she will feel like tearing her hair out, and will take off without telling anybody to be with her children. One day she rides Rhaegal for miles and miles, her eyes watering from the wind, and  _ not _ her tears. She can scream as loudly as she likes up there.

 

It makes her unstable and unpredictable, but she refuses to tell anyone what is bothering her when they ask. She wants to break down and cry into Missandei’s arms but she will not allow herself that kind of weakness, even in front of her friend. She knows Missandei has guessed what is bothering her, but she isn’t privy to Varys’ information. She knows nothing except his absence, and Daenerys feels stupid at the overreaction.

 

Finally, she can bear it no longer. The rage has become so much easier to name and place than the grief ever was, and who she is angry with is Ser Jorah, who  _ still _ has not written. She writes to him herself, after deciding enough is enough. She is shocked at her own bravado.

 

_ Ser Jorah Mormont, _

 

_ Please return to King’s Landing immediately. There is a matter that has come to my attention that I would like to question you about. Leave with all haste. Bring only who you absolutely must. _

 

_ Daenerys Targayen, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms _ .

 

She never writes letters herself these days, and she knows that he will read coldness in her tone. He will arrive knowing that she is displeased. She wonders if he will figure out why, if he will even care enough to consider.

 

She sends the raven, and waits. He replies with a confirmation note, but still offers no more information.

 

Several weeks of silent seething and building resentment later, she is told he has returned to the Red Keep.

 

\- - -

 

“ _ Khaleesi- _ ”

 

“Stay there, Ser Jorah.”

 

She has asked to meet him in the throne room, and only her and her guards are present. It is cold and impersonal, and already he looks to be on his guard. She thinks absentmindedly that he hasn’t aged, and then realises that it has been less than a year since they last saw each other. 

 

“Please-”

 

“I imagine she is quite beautiful, you’ve always had a weakness for that. And young, too?”

 

He frowns. She feels a satisfying rush of disgust at herself.

 

“She is fair in my eyes,  _ khaleesi _ , and seven years younger than myself.”

 

“And you still hope she will give you children? Perhaps someone younger would have been a surer bet.”

 

His brow creases further. He looks small and hurt, standing below her. The resemblance the scene has to the moment she banished him in the pyramid of Meereen sends more emotion rushing against the tide of cold anger she feels.

 

He stays silent, his head bowed. She raises her voice to the room.

 

“Leave us. Everybody.”

 

The room clears slowly. She nods to her Unsullied guards, who rarely leave her side, to do the same; she has nothing to fear from this man, who would rather die himself than see her harmed.

 

Once they are entirely alone in the cavernous hall, she speaks again.

 

“Do you love her, Ser Jorah?”

 

“I don’t yet know her fully, my queen.”

 

“But you will give her your heart?”

 

He looks at her then. Familiar blue eyes, shining with shame and passion, fill her with more ridiculous, sickening jealousy.

 

“My heart is yours,  _ khaleesi _ , as you know. It always has been, and always will be, no matter who I marry.”

 

Her glare sharpens even further, pinning him to the throne room floor.

 

“How very  _ gallant _ of you, my knight.”

 

He still says nothing, looking resolutely down, his hands held behind his back, open and vulnerable and trusting. She’s bitter, like a child having a long-neglected toy taken away for someone else to play with.

 

“You gave me permission to seek a wife,  _ khaleesi _ . You sent me home to nurture what’s left of my house. I...I am sorry if I have offended or upset you, I only-”

 

“You seem to have planned quite far in the future, without telling your queen anything until now. Wouldn’t you say that is irresponsible for her primary advisor and protector? Or did you think I wouldn’t deem it important to hear what you plan to do with the rest of your life?”

 

He swallows visibly. He looks, for once in front of her,  _ torn _ in his loyalties. She bristles further.

 

No, she isn’t bitter like a child, she is jealous like a woman, slighted and shafted, angry without true cause for a reason that is no rationality and all emotion, emotion she barely recognises and doesn’t know what to do with.

 

“She would take you from me. You have turned from your queen for the sake of your own desires.” She accuses. Her tone is even, but prickling.

 

“Never, _khaleesi_ -”

 

“You didn’t think to tell me you’ve fallen in love. You didn’t think to inform me that you would leave my service, leave my side, because you knew I would be displeased. You have betrayed me.”

 

She sees his heart break through his eyes, his usually guarded expression tearing with the weight of his grief. They are here again, her above and him below, speaking his own betrayal back to him with measured anger, while he watches, broken and helpless.

 

This feels like treason. She should be able to kill him for turning from his queen. Her body feels as if it has been physically struck, panic and terror flooding her system as she tries to locate where exactly she is hurt.

 

“I am sorry. Forgive me. Please,  _ khaleesi _ .”

 

Listening to him beg soothes her somewhat. He is a proud man, and she values and respects his dignity, so has rarely heard him beg. He  _ should _ be ashamed. He should be desperate for forgiveness.

 

Fire crackles behind her eyes. Her heart is sore as it races with barely-concealed rage.

 

“You want to be forgiven? You want to be welcomed back into my inner circle? You want to retake your place as my  _ closest _ ?”

 

He looks like he might cry, and guilt rises like bile in her throat, but she is feeling masochistic, and so she lets it stew and fester.

 

“You’d have me put you first, but would not put me first? You’d have me trust you most, but then swear your heart to another?”

 

“I would  _ never _ give my heart to another. I cannot, you  _ know _ this.”

 

“Do  _ not _ tell me what I do and do not know!” She hisses. It echoes through the empty hall, hanging in the still and charged air for seconds afterwards.

 

She blinks the tears from her own eyes with irritation.  _ No. Never _ .

 

She remembers the last time they had stood like this, facing each other across a seemingly uncrossable distance. But they  _ had _ crossed it…

 

_ I have protected you, fought for you, killed for you… _

 

_ I have loved you. _

 

Does he love her now? Does he feel the deep-rooted, unfathomable ache that has become a part of him? Does he look at her with wonder and adoration, a goddess above him, as he once had? Or does he see a petty and unreasonable woman that he’s come to know better than anyone, having to adjust to being second in his priorities, for once?

 

And what does  _ she _ feel? Why is she behaving like this, when after all these years, she has learnt the virtue of restraint?

 

“You wish to be forgiven?”

 

He nods solemnly.

 

“Approach.”

 

He obeys warily, and looks, at this distance, tormented. He keeps walking up the steps, until he stands before the throne. 

 

“Kneel, Ser Jorah.”

 

He does so, pointedly slowly, after only a moment of deliberation.

 

“You wish to marry?”

 

“...Yes, your grace.”

 

“Why?”

 

“To continue my house.”

 

“This is the only reason?”

 

“Yes, your grace.”

 

“Do you love this woman?”

 

“No, your grace.”

 

“And why not?”

 

“Because-” The words catch in his throat. She watches her own cruelness from a place near the vaulted ceiling with horror. Her stomach churns pleasantly as she sees him fighting back tears. “...because I love you. And only you.”

 

“You are saying that to placate me.”

 

“I am not.” He lifts his head, fixing her with a look of such overwhelming intensity that she is glad to be sitting. “It is the truth that we both know. My heart is taken. And I shall love you until my last breath.”

 

Perhaps he doesn’t regret this fact, she considers. He has always seemed so embarrassed, so valiant in his struggle against his own feelings, but looking at him now, she sees he welcomes the emotion, finally. He is  _ proud _ . He has accepted his fate of loving a woman who he believes will not love him back, and he will no longer cower at the prospect. _Oh, how wrong he is._

 

“Prove it.” Her voice is hushed, little more than a whisper, but run through with a backbone of steel.

 

His eyebrows draw together in confusion. She raises her own slightly, and pointedly uncrosses her legs before she can think about what she is doing. The silk of her gown slips across her skin at the shift in position, the cool air hitting her where she is already hot between her thighs. She sees him grapple with disbelief in a desperate attempt to keep his expression under control.

 

For what feels like hours they stare at each other; her daring, him not daring. Her face remains deceptively neutral. He finally moves, painfully slowly, as if he might startle her. He pushes himself up so he’s leaning on one knee, but only so he can shift closer to her. She watches him with the intensity of a dragon, daring him to make the wrong move.

 

She lets him get closer. He moves his hands with infuriating slowness, eventually brushing her knee with his fingertips. She tenses, and he freezes, but does not retract his touch. She feels slight pressure, and after staring into him for even longer, relents, and lets her legs fall apart a little further.

 

She sees him swallow. His eyes glitter with barely-restrained adoration.  _ That’s just it _ , she thinks. It’s not the desire to be worshipped that has driven her all these years. People falling to their knees before her means nothing if it is done in fear or out of obligation. This feels almost as intoxicating as enacting justice. What is loyalty worth if it doesn’t come from love?

 

He leans forward, quickly but only a fraction, and her whole body tenses once more. Her foot shoots out and presses against his shoulder, her knee bent, keeping him from her by the length of her leg. Her skirt pools in her lap. Despite being more exposed in front of him than she has been since the  _ khalasar _ , his eyes never leave hers, careful and imploring.

 

She lets out a deep breath, through pursed lips, and it sounds huge in the silence. She is conscious of her chest rising and falling, his brilliant blue eyes piercing her, the sense of his strength through her foot on his shoulder, the pricking and tugging in her lower stomach that’s oh so familiar, although it has been long absent.

 

She removes her foot, slowly lowering it to the floor. She makes no move to right her skirt, and instead, tilts her chin up a fraction, which to many would seem to be a sign of her sizing him up, but she sees him interpret it correctly, as an invitation.

 

His hand slides from her knee to the soft skin of the inside of her leg, and further round still so he is holding her thigh. His palm is rough and warm, and its path  echoes throughout her body.  He watches his own touch with mild disbelief, and a distant fascination that tells her he isn’t entirely convinced he isn’t dreaming. When he shifts forward further still, slipping in between her legs, past the point of no return, she watches him with building anticipation as he presses an achingly slow and tender kiss against the inside of her thigh. It is little more than a brush of lips, but the shock of it, the scratch of his beard, the warmth of his breath, the sudden reality, the sheer stretch of time it has taken, causes her to gasp, short and quiet.

 

His eyes flick to hers, so full of emotion she can barely stand it, asking and demanding, accepting and refusing, loving and hating, and she drinks it all in; uses it to staunch the bleeding but stoke the fire.

 

If she had glanced away, even for a second, she would have missed him wetting his lips.

 

She reaches for his other hand, resting lightly against her opposite knee, and purposefully slides it towards her body, watching with fascination as the trajectory takes her skirt with it until she is bare from the middle of her thigh downwards. Soon he is holding her in place, too high on her legs to ever be proper, especially not in the throne room of the Red Keep.

 

_ Come on, my bear, don’t make me beg. _

 

Smoothly, with no hard angles and all the assurance of a queen, Daenerys moves his hand under her skirt, slipping past her smallclothes, and pressing it against her. Ser Jorah’s breath catches in his chest, his eyes falling shut, as he finds her warm and wet beneath his fingertips.

 

It takes little persuading after that. He pushes her skirts up to her hips and bends forward, as if in prayer, to press his mouth between her legs.

 

The contact shoots up her spine like a bolt of lightning. Touch-starved and desperate, the sensation is sudden, almost  _ painfully _ welcome, and draws a choked, relieved sound from her as she grips the cold arms of the Iron Throne. He moves to hold her hips, hard enough to insinuate himself there, gentle enough to seem first and foremost a support for her. His tongue is diligent, working slowly against the centre of her, and then building in firmness and pace with each whine and sigh that leaves her. She hooks her leg over his shoulder to pull him closer. 

 

She is already so sensitive, coiled tight like a spring. He is drawing something long-dead out of her, causing something in her soul to twist and burn, slowly unfurling like the wings of her dragons. He kisses her there as he kisses her mouth; passionate yet entirely focused, with an assured thoroughness that speaks of practice. The thought of his previous wife, previous women, that must have existed to mean he knows what he is doing, makes her tighten her leg over his shoulder, digging her heel into his back, urging him closer. 

 

Daario had done so before, but only as a means of preparing her for him. She and Jon always seemed to be in such a rush to be joined that there was rarely time, and it felt like an unnecessary precursor. She didn’t know that such an act could be enough, could pull her body taught and wrench the breath from her throat. Irri and Doreah had used their fingers; when they kissed her there they had said it tired their tongues. If her knight is tiring he certainly isn’t showing it. His grip on her hips is now gloriously bruising. As he alters and reshapes her, he seeks to do so. She feels his love as sincerely and intoxicatingly as his tongue, as if his hand were gripping her very heart.

 

Her long silver hair tangles in the blades of the Iron Throne as she tosses her head back and groans. She thinks of the expression on his face when she’d emerged from Drogo’s pyre, unburnt and reborn, the untethered and unrestrained look of awe as he dropped to his knees. She cannot see his face now, but she feels her whole body throb as she imagines it to be similar. 

 

_ This is devotion, but not of a subject. He knows every lilt and slope of me, every corner and corruption, right to the soul of me. This is worship of a higher order; love, not of something powerful and unknown, but love of something knowable and intimate _ .

 

She comes with the thought in her head that she has no walls left for him to chip through, no more crevices where he can take root and grow. He has laid her bare in the throne room of her ancestors. A final undulation of his tongue rips a cry from her throat, piercing the silence and echoing through the hall. Tears pool in her eyes as she briefly touches the heavens.

 

The image that springs into her head then is one of Wynafryd Manderly, taking her husband to bed on their wedding night, feeling his strength above her, happy for having found a man so noble and kind, and Ser Jorah, home at last, fucking his wife, and picturing Daenerys’ face.  
  



	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's a little late, my life has gotten real hectic at the moment, hence sporadic updates.
> 
> Thank you all for your wonderful feedback! And, as always, I hope you enjoy this xx

Power is like drink; heady and liberating, but judgement-clouding and linked very much to one's immediate environment. This morning, Daenerys wakes up feeling the sickness one does after drinking. 

 

She left Ser Jorah in the throne room, on his knees, too overcome to speak to him, or even look at him for too long. She fled on shaking legs, just managing to dismiss him before retreating to her room and spending the rest of the day half-listening to Ser Davos talk about naval captain appointments. 

 

Now, having to face the following day and the consequences of her actions, she is hit by a wall of shame, like a sudden and brutal headache. 

 

It is as if the anger was leached from her. She sees clearly for the first time in weeks. She sees her actions plain and ugly; a queen should never lose herself over something as petty as jealousy. She must never allow something to get so out of hand again.

 

Suppression is clearly not the option. She has tried ignoring it, reasoning it into something else, beating it back and dismissing it again and again, and all it did was distill in her blood and twist her into something dangerous and horrid. No, exhausted and finally calm, she admits that she must be more honest.

 

She behaved thoughtlessly, terribly... _cruelly_ …

 

The first thing she will do is apologise to Ser Jorah.

 

She is still a queen, however, and a married woman. She must remember her place, and in her attempt at truth must not forget her responsibilities.

 

She dresses somberly. Missandei comes to deliver her morning messages with a fearful coldness in her voice that Daenery has only just noticed. How long has she been shutting the door on her best friend?

 

That is someone else she should speak to. When she thanks her, she does so genuinely, warmly, making eye contact. Missandei looks pleasantly surprised, which makes Daenerys think her foul mood for the past months was not as well concealed as she had intended.

 

She is a little brisker in her first council meeting of the day, feeling a great deal more present and grounded, and when it is over, her stomach floods with nerves as she asks for Ser Jorah.

 

_ Oh, this is so awkward _ …

 

Now he stands before her she cannot think where to start. He looks similarly sheepish, and once they are left alone there are several eternal seconds of silence as they adjust to their new dynamic. 

 

Eventually, her knight rescues her once more.

 

“Your grace, I am sorry.”

 

Like a blow, it brings her from her stupor. Pride be damned she won’t allow him to think this is his fault for a moment longer.

 

“No, I am sorry.”

 

“You did nothing that wasn’t-”

 

“Yes I did, Ser Jorah. I have behaved abominably. I am truly ashamed, and  _ truly _ sorry. I felt isolated and paranoid, I took it out on you, when I should have just spoken with you. I wanted to humiliate and hurt you, because that is how I felt. I should protect you, venerate you, trust you and be kind to you, as you have always done to me, but I acted like a child. I don’t know what came over me. I would like to apologise, and assure you that my head is much clearer now.”

 

He listens to her keenly, then drops his head forward. It looks like a gesture of acceptance.

 

“Admittedly I was taken aback by your anger. I did not recognise you yesterday.”

 

Her gut twists. “I barely recognised myself.”

 

“I accept your apology. Thank you for offering it. And I am sorry, too. If I had known how my silence would have been felt I would have written. I thought, since I received nothing from you, that you would be too busy to be concerned with such trivial matters.”

 

_ Trivial matters?! _

 

“This is not a trivial matter.” She keeps her voice as level as she can. She watches him wring his hands together slightly. “It matters a great deal. Clearly I consider it quite important.”

 

“I...did not think you would.” 

 

As their eyes meet, suddenly the chamber feels too cramped, too small, too enclosed. 

 

“Will you come with me into the courtyard?”

 

He follows her, and the silence descends once more.  _ Like removing a splinter, do it now and it will not grow infected _ , she tells herself. Once they are outside, standing across from each other, her having to crane her neck a little to look at his face, she is reminded of Qaarth, or Meereen, of all the places across the Narrow Sea when it was just her and him and thousands of invisible enemies, and her strength came from talking to him in the open. 

 

She only notices then that it is raining a little, but not enough to make her want to return inside.

 

“Tell me of Wynafryd Manderly, then. I am not trying to catch you out this time, I just want to know.”

 

He sighs, and glances around as if nervous that someone may overhear them, as if what he says is confidential.

 

“I do not know her all that well myself. She is an intelligent woman whose family allegiances have meant she has never married. She is the heir to White Harbour, but when she becomes the lady of Bear Island, it will fall to her sister Wylla. It was Wylla’s idea, actually. I needed a bride, Wynafryd was eager to see more of Westeros, and Wylla wanted to rule her ancestral home without the need for a husband.”

 

“I see.” She cannot find any other words.

 

“I intended to tell you myself, of course, but after I heard nothing from you for so long I assumed you were too busy to be thinking of me.”

 

_ Then we are both fools _ , she thinks.

 

“I am sorry for that too. Your letter sounded so happy, I thought you’d found your home, and I didn’t want to take you from it.”

 

She knows it is not enough. She swallows her pride.

 

“And it upset me to hear you so recaptured by the North. I read in your words that you were finally at peace again, and that you wanted to stay there, and it made me bitter and paranoid and...and jealous.”

 

“...Jealous?”

 

She moves away from him, feeling too fragile to look in his eyes as she speaks.

 

“You’d found you place again. I would lose you to your island and your heritage.”

 

“You know where my place is. Do you think I’m so fickle as to go back on years of promises because I went back to the castle I was cast out from?”

 

“I do not think you are fickle, I think you are human.”

 

“I don’t understand,  _ khaleesi _ .”

 

She turns to send him a hard look. “Who would choose a life serving as a bodyguard for a woman who takes everything and gives nothing back over being lord and master of your own land with a wife who loves you?” She asks, or rather accuses, her voice unsteady.

 

He blinks. He looks calm, and a small smile creeps onto his face. “I would, apparently.”

 

She sighs, and turns back to the flower bed. The plants that survive the winter are coarser and less colourful than summer blooms. She runs her finger along the prongs of a fern.

 

“You shouldn’t. You are worth more than that.”

 

“Are you saying I should leave?”

 

“No.”

 

“I’m afraid I am lost again,  _ khaleesi _ .”

 

“I just-” She closes her eyes.  _ Breathe _ . “I thought you were happier there because you should be. The North can offer you everything I have denied you. Is that not the case?”

 

“It will offer me a different life, not a better one. You should know by now that I will always choose you, if you offer me the choice.”

 

“I do. I am. This is the choice.”

 

“What choice, exactly?”

 

“Stay here. With me. Leave Bear Island to the Forrester woman and return to me. Do not remarry. I cannot bear you being someone else’s.”

 

There it is. She has as good as admitted it, and although she cannot look at him, she feels a swooping sensation in her stomach, like the tiles of the courtyard moving under her. She feels like she’s released a breath she’s been holding for years.

 

“Alright.”

 

She closes her eyes to hide her relief, then turns to face him once more.

 

“‘Alright’?”

 

“If you are giving me the choice, I will stay.” He doesn’t falter, he doesn’t look conflicted, in fact his expression is difficult to read. He doesn’t look as elated as she feels, but he rarely does.

 

“You will?”

 

“Aye. Bear Island is dreary and small after so long away from it. It has no need of me. Perhaps I am letting down my father by allowing our name to die out, but he knew what it meant when he banished me. It is an eventuality he may have seen coming. Mormont Keep has been run by warrior women for generations; Astris Forrester will not be a shock to its people.”

 

“And...Wynafryd Manderly?”

 

“Has my request but not my oath, and certainly not my heart. I will win no honour or favour in breaking with her, but it can be done.”

 

“You are not mine, I have no right to interfere with the matters of your heart.”

 

He smiles, and the thought of his blue eyes melting with warmth when looking at anyone else makes her burn.

 

“I am yours.”

 

She moves without meaning to, without realising, drawing closer like a fish on a line, raising her hand to his face, her breath leaving her in a rush, slipping into the security of his frame. The telltale nerves flare up in his eyes but he still looks earnest. She is possessed with the urge to cry once more.

 

“I have made such a mess of things.”

 

He chuckles. “You have rather. I’m not innocent of it either.”

 

“Tyrion will be angry that you have returned, but I can win him over. Clearly we are not that interesting; the singing has stopped, and people have moved on.”

 

“And Jon?”

 

“He will be back soon, but now I’ve let him leave, I doubt I’ll ever be able to keep him from the North for long.”

 

“We must still be careful. I won’t have my return to your service putting you in danger.”

 

“I’ll do as I please, I am not scared of them anymore.”

 

He gives her a stern look, like he is scolding her, and she laughs.

 

“Alright, we will be careful. Now escort me to the fountain courtyard, I’m hungry and I’m having lunch with Ser Jaime and Ser Brienne.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“They are leaving for Tarth soon. I’d like to wish them well.”

 

“As you wish, your grace.”

 

It is almost physically painful to watch him move away from her, but nothing has changed from the outside and she mustn’t allow herself to get too close out in the open where anyone might see them.

 

She takes his arm as they leave. He is warm, sturdy and living under his doublet. He is here, before her, and he has forgiven her. He says he will stay. She cannot believe something so simple could make her so happy. There was a time when he was convenient; practical help and pleasant company, and there was a time when she knew she would die without his protection and guidance, but now she cannot let him leave, for she does not  _ want _ to live without him.

 

And there is the matter of her feelings to consider. That will be more difficult to be happy about. That isn’t something she thinks will go away and although she knows it is reciprocal, to stand and face each other as two souls connected would bring so many more problems and dangers with it. At least if she keeps the secret, nothing will change, which means nothing will get worse. She has so much to lose; politically and personally.

 

But  _ oh _ , when he leaves her at the door, and she kisses his cheek as she’s now wont to do, and she drinks the affection in his face like nectar, she  _ wants _ to tell him. She wants to see his heart in his eyes. She wants to stand with him and scream it.

 

Being in love with Jon had felt like a cavity had opened up inside her; a thrilling rush of the drop of empty space and possibility, the hungry need to fill herself up again after finding out she was lacking something. It was her body making room for him to complete her, carving out a path for him since she was suddenly half of a whole.

 

It isn’t like that now. The place in her that had been desperate to be filled now feels like it has never been empty at all. The parts of her she’d once hollowed out are now just a little softer than the rest, like flesh amongst bone, and she is tender in the core of her where she is strong everywhere else. Her body doesn’t need to make room for him, because it has grown around him. He is a bruise to be pleasantly probed, not a wound that requires stitches.

 

She is soft, not empty, and she is not afraid this time that she will devour him entirely in her haste for completion; she is already full, full of bits of him.

  
  



	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is late, but I am so so busy right now. This one is kind of filler, but like, nice filler. Plot-relevant filler. I hope you like it xxx

Tyrion swears he slept better before he gave up whores.

 

He goes to bed these days, in his old room in the tower of the Hand (he’s had the bed changed, of course. He doesn’t want to think of Qyburn lying between his sheets), and he stares at the canopy and waits. An exhausted body closes itself down, an exhausted mind continues to work, just less productively. He needs the exertion of being with a woman to put him out for the night, since now he just thinks and thinks.

 

He ruminates on this as he goes to see his brother and sister-by-law off as they head for Casterly Rock.

 

“You mustn’t work yourself into an early grave. You’re all that remains of the Lannister brains.” Says Jaime, patting his shoulder, his armour glinting in the early daylight, looking older and wearier and happier than he ever has.

 

“What Lannister brains would they be?”

 

Jaime chuckles. “Whatever kept father from being murdered by one of the thousands of people who hated him for all those years.”

 

“Only to end up that way in the end. At least I won’t take the Lannister looks with me. I pray your children are blessed with both.”

 

“They’ll certainly have a natural knack for fighting.” Says Ser Brienne. She is slipping on her riding gloves, standing beside her mount. Tyrion has seen precious little of her since her wedding, and considers that her hair is longer; almost brushing her collar. 

 

“That I do not doubt.” Tyrion thinks of being bowled over by a herd of huge, boisterous nieces and nephews; blonde and tall with Jaime’s charm and Brienne’s kindness. He smiles. 

 

“If you find time in your schedule, you must come home and visit. It’s been years.”

 

“I shall. I was never particularly fond of the old place, but that was when it was my father’s house. Perhaps I shall like it better now.”

 

“Those sewers won’t maintain themselves.” Jaime jests. Tyrion scoffs, but shakes the hand extended to him. Jaime holds onto it for a moment longer, his eyes softening.

 

“Goodbye brother. I hope with Ser Jorah back you’ll have less to worry about.”

 

“If anything I have  _ more _ to worry about, but I appreciate the sentiment.”

 

Jaime smiles. “You were always at your best when there was work to be done, anyway.”

 

“You know me so well.”

 

He takes Ser Brienne’s hand. “Safe travels, the pair of you. Get home, and get some rest, finally. I wish you good fortune until I see you again.”

 

“Thank you, Lord Tyrion. And yes, you must come and visit.” She says.

 

He watches their party leave until he cannot see the top of his brother’s golden head any longer.

 

\- - -

 

_ Can’t bloody keep up with all this coming and going _ , thinks Tyrion as he goes to greet Jon.

 

“It’s been a long time, your grace.”

 

“There was much to do, my lord. We held off the Dead; they left a lot of damage.”

 

“Nothing soothes the soul quite like one’s home.”

 

It must have come out not as he intended it, but as he thought it, as Jon frowns. 

 

_ Difficult to tell if he’s frowning. His face always looks like that _ .

 

“Has much happened since I’ve been gone?”

 

Tyrion tilts his head back on his shoulders and hears his neck crack satisfyingly. “Oh, all sorts. We’ve sealed a trade deal with Meereen that is the most beneficial in the history of Westeros, thanks to the fact our Queen liberated it and left a man in love with her in charge. Ser Jaime and Ser Brienne wed, and have since set off for Casterly Rock where I’m sure they’ll settle and be disgustingly happy with their no doubt hundreds of children. Oh, and Ser Jorah left and then returned, not-quite-engaged and not-quite-Lord of Bear Island, on the request of Her Majesty. She is reluctant to let her closest advisor leave her castle, it seems, and I suppose it is Ser Jorah’s decision to make.”

 

“And he has made it?”

 

“Yes, it appears so. He’s reinstated, like he never even left.”

 

“I heard talk up North of his marriage to a Manderly woman?”

 

“There was talk, but no marriage. I think Daenerys would rather keep her closest unmarried.”

 

“And you?”

 

Tyrion smiles and bows his head. “As I said. Duty first.”

 

“And has my wife missed me?”

 

“How should I know? She’s been obstinate, moody, irritable and quiet. More than usual, so perhaps that is her way of missing you. She’s been a little better recently, though. Perhaps the adrenaline of her conquest just wore off.”

 

Jon looks wistful, but, as he thought earlier, he always does. 

 

“Well, I am eager to see her.” He says, and the words are genuine but he forgets to inform his face. It remains stony.

 

“Ah yes, I am sorry to keep you. Besides, I have business to attend to myself, out in the streets of the city, no less.”

 

He bids Jon farewell and goes to change into clothes with less  _ red and gold _ on them; he mustn’t draw unnecessary attention to himself if he is to enter the labyrinth of the capital.

 

\- - -

 

Despite the smell, he’s somewhat grateful to be in this tavern again. It is a shabby little place, buried under other King’s Landing buildings so it gets practically no direct sunlight, not that there are many hours of sunlight these days. The warm air of the overstuffed space hits him as he descends into the hall from street level, and though he may be Hand of the Queen, it is late enough in the evening that few people pay him any mind.

 

He walks with confidence over to his usual table.  _ Well, what used to be my usual table _ , he thinks,  _ before everything got more serious and complicated, when I had time to have some fun now and then _ .

 

Daenerys says she is proud he is drinking less. He thinks she is just grateful that he manages to get out of bed before noon these days.

 

The person he is there to meet is waiting for him, and so is a second mug of beer.

 

“Ah, Ser Bronn of the Blackwater, thank you so much for coming.”

 

Bronn shrugs. “I was in town. Not got anything better to do.”

 

“And thank you for my drink.”

 

“I don’t really do gifts. I expect you to buy my second.”

 

He looks at the way Bronn splays himself in his chair, the way he’s leaning against the tabletop.

 

“‘Second’?”

 

“Alright, seventh, eighth, can’t quite remember…”

 

“Well, I do hope you’re coherent.”

 

“Drink never once clouded my judgement or lessened my skill, you should know that by now.”

 

“Well, it certainly makes you more enjoyable company.” Says Tyrion, knocking his mug against Bronn’s while the other man rolls his eyes.

 

“What’s this about then, little Hand?”

 

“You once suggested that I should come to you with any...underhand matters I need seeing to.”

 

“Aye, I did. Who do you need killing?”

 

“Shh!” Hisses Tyrion, glancing around. The last thing he needs is to be spotted apparently organising an assassination. “No one. I don’t need anyone killing.”

 

“Oh. Then...what do you want me to do? That’s pretty much what all business between us has ever been.”

 

“I need killing of another nature altogether.” Hi voice drops to a low mutter. Bronn leans forward to catch it.

 

“Enough of the poetics. What do you want?”

 

Tyrion sighs. “This is a sensitive topic, so please do not discuss it with the next fool you drink with.”

 

Bronn holds his hands up. “Not a word, my lord.”

 

“There have been...unhelpful whispers going around which led to some theatrics a few months ago.”

 

“Oh? Concerning what?”

 

“Concerning our Queen’s affections, or lack thereof, for her husband.”

 

“Well, he was never the swooning type, I mean…”

 

“It doesn’t matter what’s true and what isn’t. The kingdom turned on my family so easily as soon as the opportunity presented itself, because everyone knew my siblings were fucking. More importantly, they all talked about it. They wrote songs, chanted things at us in the street, never  _ truly _ accepted Tommen and Joffrey as heirs because, regardless of the truth, the public saw them as bastards.”

 

“Well, in every  _ sense _ of the word-”

 

“Yes, I know.” Tyrion takes an exasperated swig. He’s missed the heavy taste of the beer from this tavern as well. “What I mean to say is, a rumour of that nature can have long-lasting consequences.”

 

“So the King and Queen don’t like each other; big deal. I don't remember the last pair that did!”

 

“The  _ Prince Consort _ and the Queen like each other plenty, but people got it into their heads that she is fucking her Lord Commander.”

 

“Who, Mormont? Why do they think that?”

 

“The small matter of personal history, knightly devotion and the fact that she has lavished him with honour, taken a knife to the belly for him and spends most of her time alone with him.”

 

Bronn snorts. “Ah, I can’t think why that’s spread so quickly then.”

 

“Exactly. Mormont’s loved her from the start, there is no denying that, and he is terrible at hiding it, but people cannot think there is an affair occurring in the room down from Jon Snow’s chambers.”

 

“Is there?”

 

He gives Bronn a warning look. His friend just smirks and lifts his eyebrows in mock-innocence.

 

“No. The Queen trusts him, that is all. It is all talk, but talk that must stop. Mormont went on a brief dalliance up in his homeland recently, almost came back with a wife, that would have sorted everything, but the Queen insists he return permanently, and he seems to have forgotten the whole marriage thing. I’ve tried to reason with her, but she is so stubborn and I am too grateful for the extra help to make her send him away again. Either way, the talk died down when he left and I cannot have it stirring back up now he is back”

 

“So what do you want me to do? Kill Jon Snow? Marry Mormont?”

 

“No. I’ve decided that you frequenting King’s Landing's taverns as you are so wont to do when you visit could be used to our advantage. Keep an ear to the ground, and if you hear any talk, shut it down in any way that is inconspicuous.”

 

“I’m not so good at ‘inconspicuous’.”

 

“I know, but I mean, subtly intimidate whoever says it, turn the subject elsewhere, assert other, less harmful theories, and if you need to... _ intimidate _ the involved parties any more emphatically, do it later when they’re alone.”

 

“Talk over ‘em and beat the idea out of ‘em. I get it.”

 

Tyrion sighs and leans back in his chair. “Yes, thank you. And remember;  _ subtlety. _ ”

 

“Don’t know why you asked me and didn’t get someone entirely unconnected from you to do it. That would leave less of a trail.”

 

“Because I trust you not to mess it up. And not to blab.”

 

“Oh, you trust me? That’s nice to hear.”

 

“Friendship is more of a habit one falls into than people believe.”

 

Bronn finishes his drink, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “Suppose you’re right. Anything else you need?”

 

Tyrion thinks of returning to the castle, and the large stack of letters on his desk.

 

“Another drink.”

 

\- - - 

 

“And so I should speak with her, and assure her she is still of great importance to me. I was cold and harsh, and she has been nothing but supportive all the time I have known her.”

 

“With so much else to worry about, I’m sure she’ll forgive your oversight.”

 

“She shouldn’t have to. I shouldn’t just apologise and then be instantly forgiven. I will make things right.”

 

Ser Jorah hands her the next piece of parchment and she signs it without looking.

 

“Your acknowledgement of your wrongdoing tells of a desire to change. You follow through on your word, and she knows that.”

 

She jams her quill into her inkwell a little too hard and the next signature is blotchier than she’d like. She just scoffs and moves it to one side.

 

“I shouldn’t be keeping her and Grey Worm here. I’m worried they feel obligated.”

 

Ser Jorah sighs, but it is full of affection. “If you ask her to leave any more times she’ll think you want her gone. They are important to your reign and your wellbeing. They are, in many ways, obligated to remain here, and even if they were not, it is their choice,  _ khaleesi _ .”

 

She sighs, her mind elsewhere, and idly signs one letter twice.

 

“ _ Gods _ this is tedious. Shouldn’t someone else be doing this?”

 

“It is important the invitations bear your signature, or the lords might take it as an insult. And you don’t need me to explain why a summit with Essos is important.”

 

“How many are left?”

 

“Around twenty. Almost done.”

 

She finds her exasperation is airy and forgiving. She watches him read the addresses and sort the letters accordingly. It is menial but necessary work, and he offered to do it despite it not being his duty. They have settled into this rhythm of late; making mundane tasks more enjoyable by doing them together. He asked to help her with this because he wanted to spend time with her, and she accepted because she wanted to spend time with him.

 

She has not pushed for anything since he came back, and they have not spoken about that evening in the throne room apart from a few necessary allusions. Daenerys thought she didn’t want to; she wanted things back the way they were and getting more entangled would make everything harder. Now, however, she is not so sure. Being so close to him in this oasis of quiet intimacy makes her  _ itch _ once more. She can barely look at him without her mind wandering. She cannot consider their relationship without thinking of it as incomplete, or on the path to something else, which is getting in the way of her concentration.

 

She is no fool. She knows it is not a case of  _ if _ , but a case of  _ when _ everything explodes. She awaits that moment with equal parts dismay and excitement. Something holds her back, call it duty, or propriety, or pride, or even fear, but one thing she is certain of is that it will get harder before it gets easier.

 

“All done,  _ khaleesi _ . I will send these to the aviary.”

 

“Thank you, ser.” She says, laying a hand on his arm, which stops him moving away from her for a moment. 

 

“I will see you later, if you would still like to visit the dragons?”

 

“I certainly would. Meet me at sunset.”

 

He smiles at her before he leaves, and she feels the peace of sinking back into the familiar. She would say it is like he never left, but it  _ is _ different. They are blurred at the edges, tender and easy, as if they are slowly merging together. It is like finding the sun warmer after a storm. 

 

She leaves to find Missandei. After searching for a while, she encounters her washing her clothes near the kitchens.

 

The servants gawp and scuttle out of the way as the Queen descends into the hot, high-ceilinged room. 

 

“Missandei, how many times? You shouldn’t need to clean your own clothes. You have servants to do that for you.”

 

Missandei, a little startled, gives her friend a subdued smile.

 

“Sometimes it is good for the mind to work with your hands. I like to wash my own clothes from time to time.”

 

For someone that has worked tirelessly without dignity or pay her whole life, Missandei is surprisingly inclined towards housework. However, she also worked without freedom, and Daenerys cannot deny her anything now.

 

“Very well. Would you like to talk?”

 

“About what, your grace?”

 

“Hm...the Norvos market that was in the city for the last few weeks claimed to have a real harpy?”

 

Missandei’s golden eyes widen slightly. She stops wringing the damp fabric of her gown.

 

“Really?”

 

“Yes, that’s what is being said anyway. It was one of the attractions; a _real_ harpy. It was supposed to be as big as a horse, with feathered wings and the hideous face of a crone.”

 

“Was it real?”

 

“No, of course not. They had plucked the front of a large bird and used mirrors and flames to fool their audience of its size.”

 

“I thought harpies were supposed to have the faces of beautiful women, not crones?”

 

“Well a shaved eagle looks more ugly than beautiful, I suppose.”

 

Missandei laughs, as she moves her washing to the mangle.

 

“Or we could talk about the upcoming summit, or how you are finding your translating duties, or what the servants are saying about me, or those two Unsullied who Grey Worm has given permission to effectively marry each other, or Grey Worm in general. We can talk about whatever you like. I would just like to talk.”

 

Missandei’s smile grows brighter. “I would like that too.”

 

“I have gone cold on you recently, and I apologise. Things are getting better now, I promise, and I have so missed our closeness.”

 

She does not want to be lost in translation, as it were. She will say what she means so that Missandei can be in no doubt.

 

Her friend dries her hands, and turns to face her.

 

“The rest of my washing can wait, I think.” She says, and her face is full of forgiveness.

 

The two leave the kitchens arm in arm.


	35. Chapter 35

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit more filler, but I didn't want to rush into the next phase of the story. Thank you for your continued support! And also thanks for all the dissertation well-wishers - the end is in sight (just)! xx

Months pass in much the same placid way. The days shorten to a few hours, and then seem to stop there to catch their breath, but everyone knows the darkness is coming. All there is to do is pray it does not last too long.

 

Summits come and go, and Daenerys adds new names and houses to her forces, new acquaintances to her allies, new achievements to her reign. People grow used to the new Targaryen dynasty, and with the last Lannisters and Baratheons loyal to her, the bubble of discontent mutes to a low murmur; its usual volume. Her dragons stop growing, and she would be concerned for their health if it didn’t mean they were less of a threat to her people.

 

There is still much to be done, as the kingdom plunges deeper into the cold and infertile grasp of winter, but the normalcy of palace life begins to feel almost peaceful.

 

She is glad to have Jon back. The whispers have quieted and she feels more secure upon her inscrutable throne with a husband sitting loyally beside her. They share a bed no longer, and for once she is actively grateful. Inauthenticity has never been her strong suit, and she feels exhausted at the notion of maintaining the facade of a happy marriage behind closed doors.

 

It does not help that, like a flower draining water from the soil it grows in, her attention is leeched out of Jon in its desperation to fill Jorah.

 

It is a bittersweet, cathartic agony, she thinks. After years of getting exactly what her body desires without even having to ask for it, she finally wants something she cannot have, and wants it with every bit of her being.

 

Is this what he felt? Is this what he has been feeling for all these years? This  _ torture _ ? This restless ache, this fiery irritation like a relentless fly whenever they are in the same room, like something gnawing at her in a way that shouldn’t be as addictively pleasant as it is? Had he struggled to concentrate on what others were saying during important meetings because every so often she’d move and he’d feel it like a hurricane? Was he drawn so tight, like a crossbow, every time she drew near? Did he have to consciously resist the urge his eyes possessed to seek her out, almost as if to evade suspicion? Did he spend a ridiculous amount of time daydreaming up excuses to touch her? Did he think, head in the clouds, of everyone else disappearing, leaving them finally, irrefutably alone?

 

No. He had been respectfully distant. He had known his place; his duty and his promises.

 

But she isn’t a man, or a sworn soldier, or an honourable knight. She is the Queen, the  _ Dragon _ Queen, and when she burns, she burns bright and is invigorated, and only others, only those standing close, got hurt.

 

She will have him. She must. She will offer herself to him, not just in body but in soul and heart, as much as she can, and her faithful knight will not deny her. Surely if their long and difficult journey, longer and more difficult than she has experienced with anyone else, has earned her anything it is honesty? It would be his honesty in the face of his forbidden, dishonourable, hopeless love. He should spend hours being finally, truly honest with her, telling her every detail, and she should spend hours proving herself to him in every way she can fathom, making right on her past wrongs, reclaiming missed opportunities.

 

Not because he deserves a reward for his loyalty, although gods know he does, but because she would have him that way. Because she wants to answer his call, at last.

 

And then, when they are alone, and she feels the prickle in her rise to the surface of her skin, like boiling water brimming over the edge of a pot, she is left helpless, terrified, with too much to lose and only her base desires to gain. If she were to reach for him, she would find him waiting. If she were to turn to him, he would turn to meet her. If she asked, he would comply. She  _ knows _ this.

 

_ But it is all so utterly impossible _ , she thinks miserably.

 

What can be done? To allow herself to cross the final boundary, to take the final step, to confront her feelings in the looming shadow of their future together? For Jorah, being in love with her is practically habit by now. He has learnt to endure with or without her immediate attention and intimate affection. He is much stronger than she is in curbing his compulsions. She is greedy, she is impatient, and she cannot concentrate. One would think it would be enough to have the one you love so close, but to desire them, and to be keenly aware of the consequences of realising that desire, is greater torture than if he were back on Bear Island. 

 

She is married. He serves her. They are an ill-fitting match. And, if she were to tell him, if she were to act, there would be no going back. She would give herself to him entirely, and eventually it would be plain for everyone to see. Does she want to live a life of constant secrecy for the sake of some base itch, when they have something so much stronger, so much more important already, that no one could object to?

 

And then there’s the dreams. Shorter than when he was away, and less terrifying, but more frequent and leaving her more confused than ever. She wakes with the sense that she had held something in her hands, and at the last moment, before she could examine it, it slipped awake like smoke. 

 

Wynafryd Manderly is upset by Jorah’s apparent change of heart, but it is her father that worries Daenerys. Lord Manderly is old and infirm, but his son could still do some damage to her reputation in the North on account of his daughter’s slighted honour. If only she had the constancy to let Jorah marry her, then she wouldn’t be concerned about White Harbour and Winterfell growing bitter in response to Daenerys and her Lord Commander’s dismissal of their families. She invites the Manderlys down to visit her and discuss the use of their port, but she is refused, as Lord Manderly is too ill to travel, and the family is too busy stocking up what they will need for the days when they lose sunlight. She would feel offended if she didn’t believe there was some truth to their excuse.

 

Even Tyrion seems keen to put the whole affair behind them. She was expecting more resistance to Jorah’s return, but after a few fights in the Tower of the Hand, he seemed too exhausted to go on. The truth is, she realised that Jorah’s absence and her mood that followed it made everything rather difficult for Tyrion, and now he was back to shoulder some logistical burdens, and she was in much better spirits, the internal stability was worth the external scrutiny. Daenerys made it clear that she cannot go back to the way things were in his absence, and Tyrion seemed to agree.

 

For all his pestering, he remains oblivious. She cannot understand how anyone could, especially someone so shrewd and close to the problem. In worrying about rumours spreading, he seems to have become blind to whether or not the rumours are true, or perhaps he doesn’t care. Perhaps truth doesn’t matter as long as the nation’s stability is kept. 

 

Perhaps he  _ does _ know, and is not scolding her to spare her feelings.

 

She scoffs aloud at the thought. When has Tyrion ever considered one person’s emotions more important than ruling well? That’s why she appointed him her Hand in the first place. Were Jorah to have remained and claimed the title, he would not be nearly so practical in making her uncomfortable for the sake of progress.

 

One day Tyrion offers a suggestion that surprises her.

 

“How did you come to know so much about it?”

 

“I read a lot of letters so you do not have to, my queen.”

 

“And these letters tell of discontent?”

 

“Aye, in a manner of speaking. All outward aggressive tactics are being quelled, but I know when a coup is bubbling. Productivity goes down, birth rates go down, violent acts in the street against authority go up, anarchist groups grow, relations with neighbouring kingdoms become strained or severed, or worse yet they are strengthened through an idea contrary to the current rule. I don’t know when, but unless they are reassured, your rule of the former slave cities could be questioned, and then overthrown.”

 

“So...you think I should return to Essos?”

 

“Only for a visit. If you make a tour of your cities, make certain those in charge are performing their roles properly, see that you are satisfied with how things are going and enthuse new hope and respect into the people, it might cool things down a little. It will certainly help those you appointed to rule.”

 

“But...I am Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, I cannot leave.”

 

“It has been known to happen many times in the past.”

 

“And I am supposed to just leave you in charge?”

 

“After all this time, do you still not trust me?”

 

“It would be an awful long game you were playing.”

 

“I am playing no games. I am, or rather I  _ was _ , a man of leisure. Work is important, of course, but the benefit of being the youngest Lannister, of being a disgrace, was that I had time to myself. What little time I have now will go out the window when you leave, but I understand that you must do it.”

 

“Why? Why shouldn’t I send Missandei and Grey Worm in my stead? They are from there, and I know they wish to see it again.”

 

“It might be wise to bring them with you, but the people must see their Queen; the woman who gave them their freedom.”

 

“I cannot give something that they always had.”

 

“Yes, of course, my apologies. But you still  _ helped _ . Through you they found this new way of life and through you alone will they be reassured that it is worth the struggles and the conflict.”

 

“It would be wonderful to see the cities again, but I cannot leave my kingdom.”

 

“It shall be well taken care of.”

 

“And if the people of Westeros decide they prefer a home grown Lannister king?”

 

“Ha, yes, they would much rather have an old dwarf from a disgraced family whose sister was willing to write them all off as collateral damage than a beautiful, young and kind ruler whose family have sat upon the throne for generations.”

 

“Alright, I see your point.”

 

“Your man in Meereen-”

 

“Daario Naharis.”

 

“Aye, him. Write to him and suggest a visit. You can help settle things there for a while and then move on to Yunkai and Astapor. It might be worthwhile to visit other cities to introduce yourself to their rulers. This winter comes for all of us, and good relations with the Essosi will be essential.”

 

Daenerys thinks about the proposition for a while. She is reluctant to leave her throne now she has secured it, cold and hard as it is, but she must trust her Hand to not take advantage of her absence, and she does not think Tyrion is ambitious in that way; not for his own gain, anyway. In the end, she realises she does trust him, but not entirely. Never entirely. After the rocky, bloody road to the Iron Throne, the path littered with his mistakes and miscalculations, she trusts no one’s judgement above her own. She will listen to him, but she will not blindly obey. She will not lose any more allies, or any more children.

 

However, the more she ruminates on the prospect, the more attractive it becomes. She is swathed in countless layers of fur and leather at all times. She practically wears a coat to bed. She dislikes the cold, and she finds herself more than once thrusting her arms into the fire just to feel the wonderful lick of heat that she can only get from an open flame. She’s been cautioned about this ability and allowing the servants to see it; she’s already the Mad King’s daughter and the Mother of Dragons, she does not need to be further alienated by being branded a witch.

 

And Essos is  _ warm _ . Even now, she hears reports of long hot days and blistering sun. The winter is creeping upon them as well, but the desert cities retain their warmth, and she wants to feel that again. She wants to speak tongues long-neglected, she wants to return to her chambers in Meereen with all of their airy happy memories and lonely unhappy ones. She wants to walk again among her people, to be reminded of the world that exists away from the small, cold rock of Westeros. She wants to see Daario Naharis and thank him. She wants to make sure no one is taking advantage of her absence. She wants to go  _ home _ again.

 

Three days later, and she tells Tyrion she will go.

 

“I will take Grey Worm and Missandei with me.”

 

“We cannot spare Grey Worm.”

 

“He has trained his deputy, Dust Moth, to take over should he fall in battle. This would be a good opportunity to test his leadership skills.”

 

“And you’ll leave your Queensguard with Ser Jorah’s deputy?”

 

So he has already guessed who else will join her party. “Yes. Without a Queen to guard I imagine they’ll have quite an easy time of it. I’ll take four and Ser Jorah with me, and the rest can stay to guard you, or join the City Watch if you’d prefer. Ser Trenton is more than capable of taking on a few more men to keep the peace.”

 

Tyrion sighs. “This is not a holiday.”

 

Daenerys smiles. “Is it not? It is a tour, and I intend to enjoy myself as much as I mean to work. You'll be glad when I come back in fine spirits.”

 

“Oh to be drinking wine in Volantis, instead of freezing in my own bed in this castle I’ve always hated.”

 

“You don’t hate it.”

 

“I’m beginning to.”

 

“Well, when I return, I’ll give you leave to visit your brother at Casterly Rock. That can be your holiday.”

 

Tyrion looks as if he’d like to argue that he has too much work to do, but clearly decides that would not be in his best interests, and keeps his mouth shut.

 

“When do we sail?”

 

“Ser Davos can arrange suitable passage. It is too far to fly, but obviously we cannot stop your children from following you at their own pace. We must write ahead so the cities are expecting you. I suggest you leave within a fortnight. You should inform those you intend to take with you so they have time to delegate duties to deputies and such.”

 

“I shall.”

 

She remembers the dull trudge of the crossing of the Narrow Sea, and anticipates it with resignation, but is otherwise enthusiastic at the prospect of travel. She tells Missandei and Grey Worm first. Despite their cool facade, she sees them share an excited look. 

 

_ We’re going home _ …

 

She tells Jon. He presses his lips together in a hard line and gives a small, firm nod.

 

“You do what you think is best, my queen. I’ll stay here and carry out your wishes.”

 

She thinks he’s keen to return to Winterfell, and his disappointment at her news is less about missing her and more about ruling alone in a city he dislikes while he waits for months to pass before he can go for another ‘visit’ to his family. 

 

Jorah’s reaction is a rush of almost palpable warmth, filling the space between them, simmering with the knowledge that they will soon be back in the land that brought them together. Bear or not, Daenerys will always associate Jorah with the dusty endlessness of the Red Waste, or the rugged open Great Grass Sea, or the stifling and political heat of Qarth. It is the ground that tipped and turned to drop them next to each other, and then yielded them both when they lost one another. 

 

“And we leave so soon?”

 

“Is there a problem?”

 

“Of course not, it is just all a bit sudden.”

 

“I thought, better to go now before the weather gets much worse and we’ve conquered the Seven Kingdoms only to be lost at sea.”

 

“And you need me to come?”

 

“I want you to come.”

 

He leans away from her as she says it, as if hit by a subtle but foreboding sense that this is a bad idea.

 

“It would not be the same without you. And you need to practise your Valyrian.”

 

He rolls his eyes but the humour returns to his face. He looks out across the open entrance hall and a smile tugs at his lips. They are a few feet apart at most, and ostentatiously in public, with people flitting in and out all around them, but she is aware that he is too far away for her liking. She wishes he would stand closer.

 

_ That is something I never thought I’d want _ , she thinks wryly.

 

“You’re right there. I’d be honoured to protect you on your travels.”

 

_ Oh, yeah, his job. He is not just my companion. I mustn’t forget that _ .

 

She cannot help herself from reaching for his arm. Every touch reverberates down her spine, through her blood, because she is so aware of wanting contact, and so aware of who might see it. As she smiles up at him, she sees that he feels the same way. To have him touch her as he did on his return from the North...it hardly seems possible. After so much dancing around one another, she fears the intensity might kill her.

 

“We seem prone to adventure,  _ khaleesi _ .”

 

“It was our life for years, of course we seek it out again.”

 

She moves away from him as a party of City Watchmen enter the hall. They stop to bow to her and she nods at each of them.

 

“Good day, Ser Jorah.”

 

“Good day, your grace.” He says as he bows, and then, quietly; “I look forward to our trip.”

  
  



	36. Chapter 36

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is late, I can't believe my luck but I got sick right as my deadlines are round the corner. I've been struggling to even look at a screen let alone write, but fortunately this all came quite quickly once I started feeling better.
> 
> Hope you like it xx

There was something to be said for crossing the Narrow Sea when not an invader. Her ships sail proudly, bearing her sigil, spread across the water, daring someone to attack. She is the Queen now; it is her right to sail from one continent to the other.

 

The usual discomforts of travelling be sea are inescapable. Below deck her stomach rolls with the waves, and above her eyes stream in the biting wind. With short days and cold weather to contend with, her navigators plot their route through whatever warmer currents they can identify. She has little work to do, and so finds herself sitting where it is sheltered, thinking of her country, worrying about what might happen in her absence. After a few days, she realises she should worry about Essos too, and what will be waiting to meet her on land.

 

She is glad of the time she has with Missandei. Grey Worm is aboard another vessel with the Unsullied they have brought with them, those guarding Daenerys and those wishing to return to track down their families, and so she gets her friend all to herself. On day three of sailing without stopping, as night falls and they retreat into Daenerys' cabin, Missandei voices something Daenerys has barely noticed.

 

“You have been avoiding Ser Jorah, your grace.”

 

“Have I?”

 

“It...seems strange that I have not seen you together much since we set sail, and the last time you sailed together you would speak for hours every day. Is something the matter?”

 

“No...not at all. I hadn’t noticed.”

 

It is the truth; she had not noticed, but when she thinks about it, she  _ hasn’t  _ been spending much time with her Lord Commander. The thought brings an unexpected twist of nerves to her stomach.

 

“But you’re right. I haven’t seen much of him. Do you think he has noticed?”

 

Missandei puts down her needlepoint. She has taken it up as a hobby, and Daenerys is unsurprised to find she is rather good at it. She wonders if there is anything Missandei cannot teach herself to do.

 

“I think so, yes. He was looking solemn yesterday. I thought you were upset with him.”

 

“I am not upset with him at all.” Daenerys moves to light the candles along the shelf that serves as a mantelpiece. “I…”

 

It is strange to think she has managed to avoid him, with the ship being a relatively small space of confinement in comparison to the Red Keep. It should be impossible to not speak to him properly for three days. It should be impossible, unless she was doing so  _ deliberately _ …

 

But she isn’t ignoring him... _ is she? _

 

“It is just unusual, I was concerned. I didn’t mean to be rude.”

 

“No...no I hadn’t even…”

 

When was the last time they spoke? Yesterday? The first day? Something about water supplies or approaching storms or a subject equally as mundane. She remembers because he was coiling a rope, wrapping it around his hand, aggravating the callouses she knows litter the back of his knuckles, his fingers winding the spools together with a uniting thread, and he’d looked up at her to give her the information, and she’d shut her mouth, and she hadn’t remembered what he’d been saying…

 

“Daenerys-” Missandei’s voice alerts her to the dripping wax falling onto the back of her hand from where she had been holding the candle at an angle for too long.

 

“Oh.” She brushes the wax off. She feels only a low warmth, and her skin is even and white as ever. She sighs, and lights the last candle. 

 

“Is everything ok?”

 

“Of course.”

 

“Only...I didn’t want to pry, but I noticed your change in mood seemed to coincide with...Ser Jorah leaving the capital.”

 

Daenerys licks her lips, facing the row of lit candles and not Missandei, watching the even line of flickering flames cast bars of shadow up the wooden panelling. 

 

She has been holding something in her chest, clipping its shoots, crushing its roots, hiding it away from prying eyes, and she has done it so successfully not even Tyrion Lannister has realised yet. It is now, her eyes mazy from the line of small flames, that she realises how tired she is. 

 

“And…?”

 

“And...I was wondering if that was the reason for your distance.”

 

“It...perhaps was a factor, I don’t know…”

 

She cannot turn around, or Missandei will see it in her eyes. She moves to her mirror to unbraid her hair.

 

“Did you feel vulnerable without him?”

 

Daenerys swallows. Sweat prickles at the back of her neck. Her natural reaction is to lie, to cover herself, to think of the greater good, but here with her best friend, in the muted peace of her ship cabin, she feels the weight on her chest shift a little, and the pressure gets a bit better. She tries not to let her voice tremble.

 

“A little. But…”

 

After a moment of silence, Missandei prompts her. 

 

“But....?”

 

“I...missed him. Not just his protection or his wisdom. I missed  _ him _ .”

 

Missandei is quiet. Daenerys meets her eyes in the mirror. The angle throws her image across at the other mirror and back again. An endless line of golden eyes, encouraging her to talk.

 

“I asked him to stay after he returned, in case you didn’t know. You probably heard he was getting married, well the plan was that he would live with his wife on Bear Island. I asked him to give that up. I killed the last chance for a continuation of House Mormont because I was lonely, and because having him near means I can breathe.”

 

“I see.”

 

Daenerys catches sight of a small scar on her inner wrist in the low light, shining more silver and smooth than the rest of her. There is no way of knowing for certain after all of the scrapes she’s been through over the years, but she thinks she remembers the small scrape appearing after the Battle of Winterfell. She runs her finger over it. How lucky she was to escape with only heartache and a few scratches. How incredibly ungrateful she has been.

 

She finds herself laughing bitterly.

 

“So you see? What could I possibly say to him after that? How could I look him in the eye again?”

 

“You offered Ser Jorah the choice?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Then he has chosen. This is what he wants. Surely ignoring him out of a sense of guilt will do nothing but confuse matters further?”

 

She speaks with the velvet cadence that has always reassured Daenerys that she is to be trusted. Her tongue speaks many languages and one of them may well be the truth. She digs her fingernail into the scar on her inner wrist. 

 

“I have been cruel, Missandei…” She says, and it comes out choked. She looks down, looks at her wrist turning white in her own grip, looks at the little scar as if it were a gash down her middle, the space where her lungs should be, the splitting of the blood vessels of her heart.

 

“Cruel?”

 

“I have used him horribly. I feel guilty, yes, but I suppose I do not speak to him now out of fear. Why must I put him through more torment? Why can I not be honest?”

 

“It is sometimes difficult for a queen to be honest, but it is also important.” Missandei leans forward on the chaise she sits upon, but does not reach into Daenerys’ space. “What do you fear from speaking to him?”

 

_ We are alone at sea. Surrounded by others, yes, but still so alone, so adrift, so isolated and bored. I can feel him through these thin wooden walls, I can feel him breathing the same air, I can sense things building and building and what if the resulting storm sinks the fleet? What if it rips him from me once more? What if I am too loud and he is too devoted, and, in this floating nest of other people’s eyes, we are discovered? _

 

“I fear what I will say.”

 

“That has never been a problem with Ser Jorah before.”

 

“No. It is a new problem.”

 

Missandei’s chest deflates with a silent sigh. She blinks sadly at her queen, who catches it in the mirrors.

 

“Something has changed.”

 

“Many things have changed.”

 

“He lives to serve you.”

 

“He should not.”

 

“He loves you.”

 

“That is his curse.”

 

“It is clear that there is no changing that. There will never be any changing that. It has become his nature.”

 

“So perhaps it is me that is changing.”

 

“If you were to speak to him-”

 

“And what?” Daenerys whirls round to face her. She feels her expression growing manic. “Apologise for the lost years? For ruining his chances of a happy life? Ask him for advice? For comfort? Beg for forgiveness? Fill his ears with promises I cannot keep and his heart with love I should not feel?”

 

She is breathing heavily. Her eyes are wild and wet with tears she is reluctant to shed. Missandei fights back a small smile of relief.

 

“What good does it do to deny these things? No one has ever ignored their problems away, and least of all you. You are the Dragon Queen. You face what scares you head on, you take what threatens you between your jaws, you clutch what is precious to you to your chest. You have nothing to fear from anyone, least of all him, who would be the last person to hurt you.”

 

“I would forgive him it.”

 

“Do you know him at all?” Missandei laughs. “Whatever you want from him he will offer willingly. Whatever you offer, he will take gladly. I understand your concerns, and it is wise to be wary of public scrutiny, but you are walking against the tide, and you should be careful that you do not become oblivious to his feelings once more.”

 

Daenerys looks at her hopelessly, and Missandei’s kind smile spreads reassurance over her wound.

 

“You can trust him. I  _ know _ you can. You can trust him with anything, your grace.”

 

\- - -

 

This time, the singing is not Mirri Maz Duur’s; it is a higher, clearer, more familiar voice that Daenerys has come to know for its cryptic whisperings. She can pick out some words from the confusing tangle of noises, spoken by an invisible Melisandre of Asshai. 

 

“...running out of time…”

 

“...new dawn, new dynasty....”

 

“...the night is dark, the day should not be darker…”

 

“...come, Dragon Queen, do not fight the wind…”

 

She is in Ser Jorah’s arms again, his breastplate is hard against her side and surprisingly hot, like it is freshly forged. She cannot see her own body but it feels huge, swollen, taut at the level of her skin and fit to burst. Her very being is painful and heavy and polluted. 

 

He is carrying her out of the heat, towards the tent once more, but now it doesn’t promise shelter, now it is radiating heat, and she realises with a bleary sickness, that she doesn’t like the heat. She doesn’t want to be near it.

 

She tries to tell him but she can only cough. It feels like her body’s attempt to alleviate some of the pressure, and red smoke forces its way out of her throat like bile, rising up into the air. Her lungs sting with the effort, and she tastes ash and decay, and she cannot speak as Jorah carries her into the blistering heat of the tent.

 

It isn’t a tent. It’s an organ, a throat, a mouth. The walls pulse and ooze, the heat is wet and organic. They are in a tunnel that is moving and contracting around them, pushing them inwards towards the source of the heat, like an intestine moving them towards a stomach. The smell is unbearable and it gets darker and darker. The entrance is far behind them, and Daenerys isn’t even sure of Ser Jorah carrying her anymore in the dark. All she can hear is her own gasping breaths and the gurgling of the thing digesting her. 

 

She can’t breathe. She has to get some air.

 

She rips her nightdress on the door hinge as she stumbles down the corridor. She can feel wood on either side of her but it’s too close, and she’s moving deeper into the bowels. She turns towards the faintest draft of air but loses it again. It is so dark she doesn’t know where she is, and she is so scared she isn’t sure what she’s seeing. She feels arms grab her but she wrenches herself away and carries on running. 

 

_ Dark. Dark. Dark. Pressure. She will not be digested. Oh gods, they are going to eat her. _

 

She comes to eventually; cold, shivering, crouched behind barrels of water. She has managed to make her way into the cargo hold. She blinks the panicked cloud from her vision. A few guards stand a short distance away, wary and waiting. Ser Jorah is there.

 

_ Ser Jorah is there _ .

 

“Leave.” He orders. His voice is stern and worried.

 

They are left alone. Daenerys does not move. Her arms are clamped around her legs, her knees drawn up to her chest. The hull of the ship is pressed against her back. She can hear the sea against the other side of the wood. She can feel the space out there, so close, so cold.

 

When Jorah drops to the floor beside her she is aware of being awake, and of him being close, but his arms around her jolt her back to her dream, and she starts to sob. Her breathing is so erratic that he immediately withdraws, holding her shoulders, keeping his distance, looking in her eyes. He is speaking. His voice is terrified, but its familiar timbre reaches her through the mist.

 

“Daenerys, can you hear me? Are you hurt? Speak to me.”

 

He is blurry behind a veil of tears. She cannot speak between short sharp pants. She blinks again, desperate to see, to settle herself in reality, but all it does is spill tears down her cheeks and shifts him in and out of focus. Her chest feels like it is bound with miles of rope.

 

He sits with her until her breathing evens out. His hands on her shoulders feel more like support than pressure now and she wraps her own around his wrists. Her head drops forward and he pulls her towards his chest and although it reminds her of her nightmares it also reminds her of everytime she has felt protected there. 

 

“What happened,  _ khaleesi _ ?”

 

“...Dream.” She manages. 

 

He sighs, and she cannot tell if he is frustrated or relieved, but she moves closer, pressing her forehead against his collarbone, taking deep breaths, trying to stop her tears.

 

“You are safe.” He says simply. It is so simple, in fact, that it seems to convince her body somewhat.

 

Her knees start to seize up from compressing herself down to as small a size as possible, and she imagines he feels similar discomfort, because he shifts as if to move away.

 

She feels his warmth leaving, and is struck by the thought that if she lets go, she’ll never feel safe again.

 

She grips him with all her dwindling strength and holds him where he is. He says her name but she cannot hear him over the roaring in her ears.  _ The day should not be darker. How much more do I have to give? How much more do I have to take? Tell me the answer! _

 

Through her tears she sees his face, real and present, filled with concern and patience. She presses her wet cheek against his, feels his breathing on her neck, the pulse of blood under his skin, the living warmth of him in through the stubble of his beard. She brushes her lips against his jaw and feels him hold his breath. She waits above his mouth, but only for a second, then kisses him bruisingly, desperately, with tears still rolling down her flushed cheeks. Her grip on his face is iron, drawing him to her, grasping at something she feels maybe only he can give her. She feels sick with nerves, sick with the intensity, sick with the euphoria…

 

“Daenerys…” He whispers, a fraction away from her lips, and she barely hears him. She drags her lips along his nose, his cheek, his mouth, taking his bottom lip between her teeth, kissing him because it alleviates the strain on her chest, and makes her feel grounded, at least a little.

 

She pulls him closer,  _ aching _ , screaming inside her head, demanding something she cannot name. His hand moves from her shoulder to her waist, and she wants to plead with him;  _ harder, closer, firmer, do you love me, ser? _

 

She feels the rock of the ship under her, the tears slipping past her eyelids, his tongue against hers, as she coaxes him further and further. She is not too hot; she is on fire. She has been on fire for too long.

 

His teeth scrape her lip as he pulls away. She feels the shaky draw of his breath.

 

“ _ Khaleesi _ , you should be in bed.”

 

“I...I…”

 

“Please, let me take you there.”

 

She feels the words ripped from her “Jorah... _ please _ …”

 

“I’m taking you to bed.” He says, and she realises she is no longer shaking. She is no longer crying.

 

She lets herself be lifted to her feet. He leads her to her bedroom with utmost care. When he lies her gently back in her bed, she longs to kiss him again, just as a reminder, as something tangible to cling to.

 

But she sees his face. A line has already been crossed. This will not be forgotten.

 

She sleeps now dreaming of warm seas and soft fur.

  
  



	37. Chapter 37

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heya!
> 
> Considering all the other shit I have going on, I apologise for this not being updated weekly. I'm sorry if you have to wait a bit, but it will come, I promise. I've written the end, I just need to get there without it being lacklustre.
> 
> As ever, thank you to everyone who comments and gives me kudos, as it keeps me motivated in my current climate of loads of deadlines. I'm glad you're liking it. I, contrary to what impression I might be giving, do know where this is going ;)
> 
> Thank you, I hope you enjoy this one, as ever xxxx

Day Seven is when Drogon first appears.

 

Jorah is with the navigators, explaining how reports of pirates will alter their course, when something inexplicable in the air causes the back of his neck to tingle. He turns instinctually to look, the endless water stretching unbroken in every direction, blending its grey with the cloud-covered sky, and he sees a small shadow on the horizon that grows and grows.

 

The smudge becomes and blotch becomes a shape becomes an animal, and then at last takes the form of a beast. Against the grey, everything looks black, but he can tell it is Drogon before he can see his scales. The men look uneasy, but he reassures them.

 

“He was always the most adventurous, the most inclined to roam. We spent almost a year with no idea where he was, but he always returns. He is checking in on his mother, is all. Nothing to worry about.”

 

When Drogon reaches the fleet he circles it, diving low so the beat of his huge wings stirs waves around the ships. He seems to know which one Daenerys is on, and when she emerges after being informed of his presence, his screech is almost recognisably joyful. 

 

“Have you known them to swim,  _ khaleesi _ ?” Jorah asks his queen as she stands beside him, looking upon the bulk of her child. She is paler than he would like, but she is standing upright. The nightmare of a few days prior had shaken her, so much so that she was noticeably less active, mostly staring vacantly out of the porthole of her cabin and looking to be so deep in thought that any intrusion could be considered treason. Now the panic seems to have ebbed; she is more present, and their relationship has warmed once more. He still does not know for certain what was causing her distance, but now it is waning he believes she, like him, was worried about being in close confinement for the journey; worried about what might be said, what they might do, what others might see…

 

“They tend to avoid water. They are creatures of fire, perhaps they expect to be doused.” She muses, interrupting his own thoughts.

 

“It is a long way to Essos. Will he manage it in a single trip?”

 

“I imagine so. He has crossed the sea before, he must know what he is capable of.” She speaks without taking her love-struck eyes off Drogon’s form. Jorah knows what she will say next before she does.

 

“I’d love to ride him for a while, to get up in the clouds and off the sea…”

 

Logistically it would be tricky, not to mention risky. A queen alone on the back of a dragon in open water is not a comforting thought, particularly for Jorah, even if he trusts Drogon to look after her.

 

_ He’s still a dragon. He still left her on that Battlefield in Winterfell _ …

 

“It would certainly be an effective break from this monotony.” He says wistfully.

 

She finally flicks her eyes over to him, and smiles a little.

 

“If you’d like round two, you need only ask. Rhaegal took well to you.”

 

He remembers the fear, the discomfort, the acute and penetrative exhilaration of flying. He smiles wryly.

 

“There is certainly nothing like it.”

 

The dragon skims the water, slowing its pace to match the ship, and Daenerys walks to the bow to greet him. Drogon’s thoughtful eye follows her, chirping across at the boat as she smiles and laughs back at him. Jorah considers that it must be difficult to commune with her children in this distant way. He thinks of Daenerys holding Rhaego in his infancy, clutching him to her, cooing at his round face and dark eyes, holding his hands as he learns to walk, stroking his hair and wiping away his tears. The vision is abrupt and sad, and fills him with an empathetic longing for a child that never was, and certainly never was his.

 

“Are you feeling better,  _ khaleesi _ ?”

 

She takes a moment to reply. 

 

“Yes. Thank you.”

 

“I was concerned. I haven’t seen you like that since the assassination attempt.”

 

He knows he is pushing his luck with her being so communicative, but he’s willing to make them both uncomfortable if it means he is certain she is well.

 

Her next exhale is shaky. “I was afraid, but it was just a dream. I’m sorry to have worried you.”

 

Her characteristic strength rears its head. Her spine is straight, her jawline almost level with the horizon. He feels his expression soften despite himself.

 

“Would you like to discuss it? As we once did.”

 

_ On Dragonstone, what feels like a lifetime ago,  _ he thinks.

 

“Are you still dreaming as well?”

 

“...Aye. Sometimes.”

 

“Are yours getting worse?”

 

He thinks of what felt like years trapped in a hot, oppressive room, filled with red smoke, and the sound of someone crying. That was only one dream; the worst night of his fever.

 

“They seemed to get more potent on the journey to Bear Island…”

 

She sighs. “Then that coincides with mine worsening. It was around that time too. I didn’t sleep for days on end, and it made me angry and hot-headed. I’m sure someone has told you.”

 

There had been off-hand comments from his men that he had pretended not to hear, or disciplined out of his ranks. He doesn't need her to know that, so he keeps quiet.

 

She turns to look at him, and in perfect synchronicity, Drogon veers upward and heads for the clouds.

 

“What do you think they mean?”

 

Now he believes she is fully recovered. Her eyes are filled with resolve to expose the demons that have tormented her thus far. She has been scared, and now she will be brave.

 

“Do you see the Red Woman?”

 

“Yes. Not as much as I used to...but yes, I hear her voice. She used to give me messages, cryptic though they were. Now she just…”

 

She says “sings” as Jorah says “screams”. Her brows draw together.

 

“Sometimes it sounds like the same thing.”

 

“Aye, sometimes.”

 

“Why her? Why now? I used to dream of the Red Keep, of ash and snow, of my family and my children, but never like this. It was never so horrific, so trapping, so hot or so real. Why now?”

 

“If it is Melisandre who is at the centre, might it not be her magic?”

 

She thinks. He watches her scrape the railing of the ship with her index fingernail. 

 

“I suppose...they started after…’

 

Her eyes, distant for a moment, become clear as they meet his own. 

 

“After I came back. After  _ she _ brought me back.” He finishes for her.

 

She frowns again, her eyes flicking between two invisible points, trying to forge a link.

 

“It was fire magic, and she said something about the future, about  _ your _ future…”

 

“She said I’d need you. She said the world needed you for the future to be certain.”

 

“So it is a prophecy? Are we supposed to be following instructions?!”

 

“I was at first. I was trying to make sense of it all, but now it’s just nonsense. Why bother giving us dreams if we can’t figure out what they want us to do?”

 

“It is strange that we are both getting them. I wonder if anyone else is…”

 

“They’re specific to us, right? I mean, I dreamt how to resurrect you, remember? By cutting the stone out. That was the answer to a problem I had.”

 

He remembers little other than a blinding hot pain, and then consciousness swimming, and forming her face. The first thing he saw with his new breath of life...

 

“When I was stabbed in the invasion of the Red Keep, I thought I would die. I’d lost so much blood, I felt so weak. I must have lost consciousness, because she was there, telling me I had to go back, I had to go  _ on _ , and then she pushed me where the wound was, and suddenly I was awake and alive. Suddenly I had energy and purpose and strength. It was as if she wouldn't  _ let _ me die.”

 

Daenerys’ face goes hard around her cheeks. They don’t talk much of the mission, and Jorah realises he hasn’t told her that part, except that he was injured.

 

“I had no idea it was that bad. You...you could so easily have died…”

 

“But I didn’t. Perhaps I actually  _ couldn’t _ . Not then, anyway.”

 

“Your wound healed so quickly, I had no idea it was serious.”

 

“It should have been, but it wasn’t. Perhaps that has something to do with it.”

 

She seems lost in thought as she places her hand on his chest, over the place the wound was, over the place the scar should be.

 

“I wonder what it all means…”

 

“If they want something, they should make it clearer.”

 

She smiles. “Agreed. They can ask for it rather than make us do all the hard work.” She pulls her hand away with a sideways glance as a member of the crew passes them. He catches her skittishness; it seems that they are both afraid of scrutiny. There is no room for secrets on a ship.

 

“I suppose we will just have to wait for another sign.”

 

He hates that he might have done this to her; t hat somehow it is his fault that she is suffering through sleepless nights and unspeakable horrors in her dreams. If there was a way to take it from her, he knows he would, but he feels as helpless and clueless as she seems to.

 

“I am sorry you cannot find peace,  _ khaleesi _ .” He says.

 

She smiles. He remembers a time when he’d treasure every small quirk of her lips that she sent his way. Now, she is generous with her smiles. Since he returned, since he pledged himself to her again but in a decidedly  _ different _ way, she has been more open with him, more affectionate, and he does not want to let that glimmer of hope grow into a blaze that could destroy everything he built to protect himself.

 

“I am sorry you suffer with the same, my knight.”

 

\- - -

 

Daenerys expected the dream that came that night, as if finally discussing it with Ser Jorah spoke it into existence.

 

Having finally fallen asleep hours after retiring, she wakes herself up in a cold sweat only a short while later, heart racing, breath ragged, clutching at her sheets. She is so tired she dreads the rising sun. With so few hours of daylight, so little space to move around in and so little for a queen to do aboard a ship, she is beginning to lose her patience, and any excitement she had at the prospect of visiting Essos.

 

She remembers a solution that worked last time, and resigns herself to the action. She is woozy and a little delirious, and not-quite-awake enough to resort to anything to get some rest.

 

She tells the guard on duty that she wishes him to fetch Ser Jorah to relieve him of his watch.

 

When he shows up at her door, she feels a tremor run through her. He is dressed, but without armour. He looks like he came in a hurry. His eyes are unfocused, but full of concern.

 

“Is everything alright,  _ khaleesi _ ?”

 

She sighs. She feels the weight slip from her shoulders as she gives in.

 

“I must once more ask you to guard me from my bed, ser.”

 

He visibly swallows. She moves back towards her bed.

 

“I had no dreams last time. I’m sorry, I just don’t know what else to do. I  _ need _ to rest.”

 

His posture relaxes a little.  _ After all this time, he can’t still be concerned with propriety, can he?  _

 

“Please join me. I feel safer with you near.” She says, turning from him, hoping,  _ believing _ , he will follow her.

 

She moves back under her sheets and waits expectantly. He looks torn, and tired himself, but he removes his outer tunic and hesitantly climbs in beside her. 

 

He lies on his back, sighing deeply, tense as a board, and she traces his profile with her eyes. There is a thin wave of tension roiling between them. She feels so supremely aware of his body, the space he occupies, the heat he generates. The air hums against her skin as if charged, and she feels less tired all of a sudden. She hasn’t felt this very specific physical sensation since she first took Jon to bed. 

 

She takes a deep breath to calm herself, and it sounds so loud in the quiet. 

 

_ He would protect me from the dreams if he could. Perhaps we can protect each other _ .

 

They lie in silence for a while; Jorah still tense, Daenerys trying not to think about the strength in his hands, in his tongue. The sheets feel rough against her skin, the air feels cold against her cheeks, her body seems more sensitive than should be possible. But the exhaustion is creeping in, and the ship is too small to contain what she wants to do to him.

 

She reaches for his arm and pulls it around her. As she crosses the threshold, it dissolves, and he slowly wraps her in an embrace. She can hear his heart beating under his ribcage as she lies with her head against his chest. His stubble tickles her forehead when he presses his nose into her hair. Being surrounded by him, she feels calmer, more permanent, and yet also like something small and soft protected by something impenetrable. Somehow, despite being aware of every point they touch each other, she drifts off to sleep.

 

\- - - 

 

Thus starts a pattern. She knows it is risky, but she is tired of fighting, and it is a relief to be able to sleep for once. 

 

He comes to her room when everyone else is in their cabins. She wishes there was a way of being more subtle than telling whichever guard is standing at her door that night to go to bed and let Jorah take over, but there is not. She is the Queen and she must always be protected. She sacrificed true privacy years back. If the men talk, they talk, but it’s easy enough for him to enter her cabin when everyone is in bed and leave before everyone wakes up. People need not know that he is inside her quarters as opposed to just standing outside them.

 

It is risky, she knows, and Tyrion would be furious with her. But Tyrion is not here, and she needs to sleep. 

 

Missandei notices, of course she does. She has a playful smirk on her face, but says nothing except that she is glad Daenerys is sleeping better. Daenerys makes it quite clear that nothing untoward is happening, but without proof she wouldn’t blame Missandei for not believing her.

 

Travelling gets a little easier as the nightmares ebb. As their nightly routine gets more comfortable, it gets harder and harder to rein herself in. One night, she kisses him goodnight without thinking about it, and then spends the next three hours going over it in her head and berating herself for being so stupid. It feels more natural than ever to touch him, but stuck on a ship crossing to Essos is not the time to pour out her feelings and claim him in the way she wants to. 

 

She is paranoid to a certain extent; she thinks every muttered conversation between the men is the start of a rumour, that every time someone looks at her before respectfully bowing their head, they see her in bed with her lord commander, betraying their Prince Consort. She needs her nights with him to calm her mind but then the days begin to take their toll with her nervous worrying. Jorah assures her it doesn’t matter; none of them would dare raise the issue and it is perfectly normal for her to want someone she trusts guarding her on the voyage, but it is difficult to forget Tyrion’s words, and the lessons on reputation she has learnt in the past.

 

She’s at breaking point when they finally reach the shores of Pentos. 


	38. Chapter 38

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this has taken a while! I had a lot on my plate and then I had to do quite a lot of Essos research to get stuff right. I have only read a few of the books, and ages ago, but I wanted to keep the content of this bit as authentic as possible. I meant to only have one chapter on the free cities, but then the stint in Volantis got a bit out of hand and I liked where it was going, so I split it into two chapters, and that is already written so will be up shortly!
> 
> So here we go, the Essos leg of the gang’s world tour!
> 
> (Also, I assume Jorah would speak at least basic Valyrian. He lived in Essos for years before he met Dany, and made a living as a sellsword. He would have to speak the language at least a little. I don’t know why the show didn’t mention this.)
> 
> Lol remember when I thought this would be 40 chapters? It's now more like 45 at least. Enjoy! xxx

She had noticed the days getting steadily warmer as they neared land, but stepping off her ship onto a pier of sun-warmed stone is a relief greater than she had anticipated.

 

The breeze that stirs her hair as she moves ashore carries the memory of heat, like stepping into a delicate, almost intangible embrace. The sun is low, the sky is a pale blue that is moving towards grey, and despite it just being past midday she knows it will get dark soon, but Essos still holds vestiges of summer. She sighs. Grey Worm meets her and she walks flanked by him and Ser Jorah. Missandei’s eyes glitter as she steps onto the ground of her continent.

 

They are greeted by senators and noblemen, merchants and priests. She is bowed and curtseyed before by heads she never sees the face of. Walm palms clasp around her hands, people avert their eyes, someone shouts her name from the crowd that has gathered to see the Dragon Queen alight her ship, and others pick up the chant. The welcome is courteous and curious, not adoring but not hostile, and she is grateful to be shown to her host’s palace and given a large, airy room that isn’t rocking.

 

She is in the dwelling of a magister, one of the richest and largest, or so she is told. She has never met him before, and he seems to have stormed through Pentos society quickly and efficiently. She inquires after Magister Illyrio, and is told he is away negotiating a trade deal, but will try to join their party later on in the journey. She cannot decide if she wants to see him or not; he was a great help to her once, but she has not seen him since he decided she would bring him no profit.  _That was a misstep_ , she thinks.

 

She has three days in Pentos before they move on.

 

Ser Jorah’s chambers are in the opposite wing of the palace to hers, and with their host’s personal guard swelling her protective numbers, there is little excuse to have him near her for the night. She is worried that the nightmares will return, but after a day of being passed around the magisters and their houses and their friends, spoken to and bowed to and given gifts, after three huge banquets in her honour, she is so tired that she is asleep before she is even aware of climbing into bed.

 

Pentos is like King’s Landing, she realises for the first time; with its high walls, bustling markets and scope of poverty. The rich are very rich, the poor very poor, and although there isn’t any slavery by name, she can see it on the streets anyway. The branding and categorising of people, the removal of their freedom slowly and systematically by trapping them into lifelong contracts of work, are all too familiar: free by name, but not by nature. She is glad to leave after a parade of magisters and self-proclaimed princes, all with the same slimy politeness, all with the same subtle implications of ill intentions. She is eager to get to Meereen, but the tightness in Ser Jorah’s understanding look reminds her of how far they have to go.

 

“We must pass through Myr and Voltanis,  _ khaleesi _ . Then through North Valyria, which will be the longest stretch because we are not stopping there. We have two days on the coast of Bhonash and then straight on to Meereen.”

 

“We are not stopping at the Orange Shore, as we planned?”

 

“Not anymore. In order to reroute to avoid the Dothraki Sea, we must lose a week, and that was deemed the leas important stop. Tyrion has us running to a tight schedule.”

 

“And why would we avoid the Dothraki Sea? There are Dothraki in our party.”

 

“Aye, but they are Westerosi riders now. Your  _ khalasar _ was the largest ever, mounting the world and traversing the sea, but others have arisen since you left. They are smaller in numbers, more dispersed and less of a threat, but these new ‘true’ Dothraki may well have little respect for a  _ khaleesi _ who sits on a throne, not astride a horse. Many of them may not even know of you. That is the nature of nomadic races.”

 

To have strayed so far from a culture that once absorbed her seems absurd, and even a little heartbreaking. She supposes she is only  _ khaleesi _ by title now. She does not behave like the Dothraki, she no longer holds their values, she sits above her people on an iron throne rather than riding among them, she wears fine silks, drinks expensive wine, never gets her hands dirty, and there are very few people she could best in a physical fight for her crown. Her Dothraki have adapted to Westerosi life as well, she realises. They dress differently, they travel less, and upon her firm command they do not rampage across the country, killing innocents and pillaging their villages.

 

She should fear the Great Grass Sea once more, it seems. She sighs and joins Missandei on the veranda as they prepare to leave Pentos.

 

\- - - 

 

Travelling by land is relatively comfortable, and at least there’s space to breathe. She rides for long stretches of the road, despite Grey Worm’s misgivings about her safety, but he knows that it would be pointless to try and argue her back into her coach.

 

She was looking forward to the Orange Shore. What she’d heard of it was interesting, and she doubts she will ever have another opportunity to see the famed coastline. 

 

“A rather dull place, your grace.” Says Magister Baesenyx, as she sits under a canopy in a Myrish amphitheatre and watches, with a great deal of resentment and trepidation, the preparation of a dog fight.

 

He continues: “Hardly worth visiting. Civilisation is few and far between, and there is nothing in that society that you cannot find in more abundance and higher quality in Myr.” The grapes he picks at are an unusual orange colour, but on sampling them, Daenerys finds they taste similar to the grapes she is used to. She wonders if the pigment has been changed deliberately.

 

“Still, I have never been, and I would like to see as much of Essos as possible before I return. I consider it a shame.” Politeness dictates she make small talk with her host. Baesenyx is giving a festival in her honour while she visits Myr, and she must appear grateful enough to flatter but not so wilting to cause him to think she is easily swayed. She has opted for courteous distance, which works for her since she can maintain a civility while also paying close attention to the rich women Baesenyx has sent to sit with her advisors, primarily the beautiful Myrish girls talking closely with Ser Jorah.

 

Baesenyx made his wealth in rubies, and you can tell just by looking at him. Red stones glitter from his chest, fingers and clothing like blood oozing from multiple punctures, and the resulting clash of colour with his bright green robes hurts her eyes after being too close for too long. His face is also red, she thinks with amusement; an unusual trait for a Myrish man, who are usually darker skinned, but she imagines it has something to do with the fact he is on his second flagon of wine and the fight has not even started yet. He is a slippery man, pretending to be less intelligent than he is, and undercutting his flattery with subtle jibes and personal questions. He is almost bald, and she knows the pointed beard on his chin is someone else’s hair he has stuck there. She heard some of her Dothraki laughing at the rumour of him popping it off his chin and placing it on his nightstand before bed. 

 

She can tolerate him, even humour him, from her heightened position of knowing she will not have to for very long.

 

“It’s mostly sand and dirt and animals from here until Valyria, and then after that, more of the same. It’s remarkable you have returned to your former state of noble beauty after so many years among the horselord savages.”

 

Demeaning her people irks her, and he seems to notice this.

 

“Not that they are not great warriors, your grace.” He says, as if that is enough to excuse the insult.

 

He begins to talk about Dothraki culture from his experience which, as quickly becomes apparent, is limited. Daenerys tunes out his explanation of their religion, barely scratching the surface of what she knows of their belief system, and instead watches one of her ship’s captains feed a Myrish woman a small tart. She wonders if they are actually the daughters of nobles, or just very beautiful whores; there was not much of a difference in Qarth. They appear to be resourceful women, as they take any interest shown by these foreign men as an invitation to creep closer. She notices Grey Worm has moved away from his original seat to be with Missandei under the canopy behind Daenerys and Baeseynx.

 

Jorah sits with three women. His posture is as straight and controlled as ever as they spread themselves over their cushions, limbs languid, heads tilted at angles. It is an appropriate visual representation of the cultural difference, she thinks, as she watches him answer their questions politely. He is wearing a light tunic with no armour, but still looks strong and imposing amongst the pillows of the low couch. One of the women lies across the carpet beneath them, examining the hilt of Heartsbane with great interest. 

 

“...no concept of marriage, of course. Like their mounts it is their right to mate with whatever women they like…”

 

She watches Ser Jorah watching the preparations in the ring below. They have brought out the cages with the fighting dogs in them. They snap their jaws and snarl across the arena at each other, saliva foaming between their teeth.

 

She watches him turn his attention back to the woman on his right. She has a line of delicate gold hoops piercing the skin of the bridge of her nose, all the way down until it stops just above her nostrils. It is an unusual accessory, but strangely attractive. She asks Ser Jorah a question in her low voice. He laughs a little and shakes his head as he answers. Daenerys cannot make out what he says.

 

Baeseynx’s speech cuts off as a fly lands in his full goblet. He makes a sound of discontentment, then throws the contents down into the arena. The wine stains the sand like blood, like rubies. The woman on the floor before Ser Jorah has a high, tinkling laugh. She slides Heartsbane partially out of its scabbard to look at the blade more closely. She watches the third woman, covered almost entirely in orange silk apart from the left half of her face, rest her hand on Jorah’s arm. She is certain he has noticed, but he doesn’t react. She trusts Ser Jorah. She  _ trusts _ him.

 

That isn’t the problem, she realises. 

 

She has no right to be possessive. He isn’t hers, and there is no reason for these women to think that their attention would bother her. Everything is wrapped up so tightly in her chest that, although she thinks about it all of the time, she forgets that others don’t know. 

 

Baeseynx clears his throat; he is waiting for a response to something he has said. She glances away from Jorah, and catches Missandei’s eye. She gives Daenerys a look of warning. Daenerys forms a generic answer, and Baeseynx goes back to talking, but with a hint of discomfort in his tone.

 

When the dog fight begins, she is on edge enough to be glancing over at her lord commander every few seconds. More touching, more laughter, and although he is being courteous, his willingness to engage them in conversation seems to only be encouraging further advances from all three women. She looks away as everyone’s attention is drawn to the spectacle of cruelty below. It is not worth the diplomacy of insulting her host by refusing to watch the violence, but suddenly she finds the distraction of snarling, squabbling animals to be somewhat welcome. 

 

After the fight is done, the carcass of the loser is dragged away, mangled, torn and bloody, and the winner is given a sizable portion of meat, which he falls upon with the enthusiasm of something starving. It turns Daenerys’ stomach and she is glad that it is over. 

 

As they walk back to the palace to continue the ‘festivities’, she overhears the pierced woman and the woman in orange talking amongst themselves quickly, excitedly, in bastard Valyrian.

 

“... he is a lord!” Is all she can make out.

 

\- - -

 

The last time she was in Volantis, it was with her brother. 

 

He had been more irritable than ever. They were young, and she doesn’t remember much, but the heat made him restless and angry. He snapped and criticised more than usual. Riding through the streets, as those of noble blood are expected to, was uncomfortable for him and she remembers his hair tied back to combat the humidity. It is not a fond memory, but it is potent.

 

She also remembers the Black Walls. She imagines that as a child she must have merely _perceived_ them as impossibly high, an endless structure of dragonstone with its summit lost to the clouds, but when they arrive and she catches sight of them, she is taken aback once more. Her memory served her well, and their vastness again fills her with awe. 

 

They ride through them atop horses, but Daenerys is brought an elephant, and carried into the east of the city upon its great back. She feels anxious and a little foolish, riding an animal that she has no knowledge of, no control over, and likely isn't even aware that she is there, but she straightens her spine and peers down regally at the people that gather in the streets to watch. Elephants lack the practicality of a horse and the elegance of a dragon, but she recognises that she is being honoured, and accepts the situation without a fuss.

 

She is staying at the home of one of the triarchs, Vargoros Paenymion. He is an elephant triarch, a ruler that stands for trade and commerce as opposed to war and conquest, and she feels a little safer in his house than in his tiger counterpart’s, who had also extended an invitation, albeit with little enthusiasm. Tyrion was hesitant to plan a stop in Volantis, since the last time he was there, talk of riding against Daenerys in Meereen was rife in the streets. After the re-election of more peaceful triarchs and several long and painful meetings with Daario, the oldest of the free cities seems less likely to attack Daenerys’ free city, but organising a visit was still risky. She felt a sense of duty at the prospect; she did not agree with their way of life, but to protect her people in Essos, she must practise her diplomacy and broker peace in person.

 

_ There are five slaves to each free man in Volantis _ , the violent voice in the back of her mind reminds her.

 

The Black Walls swallow their party, and she is taken to Vargoros’ house.

 

He is old blood, his lineage traceable back to Old Valyria, thus he has the right to live within the dragonstone walls and is eligible for a position as triarch. He is unfathomably rich, even for a queen, and Daenerys watches the eyes of her men widen, their cheeks flush, at the scale of his wealth. She makes sure to look at the face of each and every one of his slaves as she is shown into the great hall of his palace. Anger bubbles at the back of her throat, like the fire of her children before the carnage, but she bites it back, quashes it down, thinks that she cannot afford to go to war with Volantis just because of her temper and sense of justice.

 

“My father wished for peace with your Meereen.” He says at dinner. “I thought it appropriate that I open my house to you, since he spoke out against war with your cities. Targaryens have always been in favour with Volantenes, we have always supported and protected your claims, and he believed that honest conquest was to be respected, and that launching an attack on the liberated cities of Slavers’ Bay was a waste of time and resources when you had the blood of Old Valyria and three dragons.”

 

“I have renamed it The Bay of Dragons.”

 

“Ah yes, of course. Old habits, and all that.”

 

Vargoros is a young man, elected as a result of bribery more than popular politics, Daenerys would guess, but he seems less despicable than other Volantenes she has met, and she has questions about her family that she would like answered. 

 

“I have heard no reports of a Volantis attack on Meereen.”

 

“There have been a few small attempts, but the city is nearly impenetrable, and people are afraid of your power. That is enough to keep us disinterested. People were afraid that we would be next on your list.”

 

_ You were. Perhaps you still are, _ she thinks.

 

“I had Westeros in my sight. I have no further interest in conquering Essos.”  _ Yet _ , she adds silently.

 

“It is better this way, I think. All conquerors fall eventually, and we would much rather have you as an ally.” He seems genuine, but Daenerys is cautious as she smiles tightly at him.

 

After dinner, in a moment of solitude, she seeks out Ser Jorah.

 

“Are you tired, ser?”

 

“Not particularly. The roads here are much more forgiving than the Great Grass Sea.”

 

“Certainly.” She says. He has changed again since dinner. He is dressed down.

 

“Are you going somewhere?”

 

He smirks at her perception. “I was going to ask your permission,  _ khaleesi _ …”

 

“Not leaving me again are you?” 

 

“Of course not.” He replies, reflecting her easy humour.

 

“Where are you going then?”

 

“A tavern across the Long Bridge. I once had a friend, a good friend, who ran it, and I thought I’d check to see if he is still there.”

 

_ Of course _ …

 

“You lived here, did you not?”

 

“Aye, for about a year. I had nothing except my sword. He was good to me, gave me lodgings on good faith and listened to my woeful complaining; more than anyone should ask of a landlord.”

 

There is so much of his history still shrouded in mystery. She should ask him more questions.

 

She had hoped to have some time alone with him, but he probably never thought he would be back in Volantis. It would be cruel to deny him this reminder of his past.

 

“Of course you may leave. I cannot say I’m not a little envious.”

 

He laughs. “You would come with me?”

 

“Yes, if it was at all appropriate. I’d like to see the city from a citizen’s perspective.”

 

There’s a glitter in his eye. His smile is small and cunning. 

 

“You are the Queen, you can do as you wish. Cover your hair, change your clothes, and no one would know you.”

 

_ There’s a thought _ …

 

_ No. What would Tyrion say? _

 

“It would not be safe…”

 

“You would be with me. Where could be safer?”

 

He is bold tonight, bolder than usual. It thrills her.

 

“What if someone recognised me?”

 

“From what? Songs? From seeing you in your childhood? A tavern in the west city is the last place people would expect to be hosting the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.”

 

She smiles wider. “You mislead me, ser. How irresponsible of my Lord Commander.”

 

“I am trying to rescue you from growing stale and dispassionate under the eyes of these boring, rich men.”

 

“Do not say that! Anyone could hear you, the last thing we want is to insult our hosts.”

 

“I’m unkillable, remember?”

 

She laughs with him at that. Like children in on a secret, they lean in together conspiratorially. 

 

“I leave within the hour. If you would like to join me, make your excuses and assure Missandei that you are with me. I will meet you in the garden in your disguise.” He says, and moves away towards Grey Worm and his men just as Vargoros enters the antechamber, and takes Daenerys’ arm.

 

“Delightful to meet you, your grace.” He says in bastard Valyrian. “My slaves will show you to your rooms. I bid you goodnight.”

 


	39. Chapter 39

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is such a long one, I guess I just got carried away. I had a lot of fun with it though, I so rarely just write pure fantasy-fulfilment fluff, but this strays dangerously close to that. 
> 
> Why do I keep introducing more OCs, you ask? I don't know, I reply. It's getting difficult to keep track of them all.
> 
> Thanks for your feedback; it keeps me writing to know you guys are reading!
> 
> xx

She could scream at her own predictability, as she bids Missandei good night and asks her to cover her absence. She meets Ser Jorah at the gates, wrapped in the least expensive-looking silks she could find in her chambers, and they leave with a nod to the guards, whose eyes slide right over Daenerys. She wonders if it is the darkness that shrouds the lilac of her eyes, or the fact her hair is covered, that stops them from recognising her.

 

Or perhaps they did, but don’t consider it their place to question her actions.

 

“This is reckless.”

 

“I know. It’s usually me telling you that.” He notes.

 

“Oh, we are in trouble.” She says, and a wash of excitement travels along her skin. The evening is still warm, the air still heavy with moisture. She longs for dry heat, but tonight the air tastes ripe with possibility. She hasn’t done anything so ill-advised since she became queen. 

 

_ Jorah is with me. What have I to fear? _

 

At the stables, Jorah asks for a horse, ‘and one for the lady as well’. The guard sees that he has come through the front gate and must assume he is one of the foreign queen’s party, but asks no questions. 

 

“Your Valyrian is not bad.” She says, in the bastard tongue of the free cities, far from the High Valyrian she was raised on, but easy enough to pick up.

 

“It is as good as it needed to be when I was looking for work in the free cities, and I am greatly out of practice.” He replies, in the same language.

 

He is. She can tell by his pronunciation. His ‘k’s sound positively Dothraki. She smiles.

 

“I don’t know why I never considered that you would speak it. It seems foolish now, of course you would.”

 

“I don’t like to boast, especially when I’m not very good at it.”

 

“So you could understand what Master Kraznys was saying when we were negotiating my purchase of the Unsullied?”

 

“He spoke Astapori Valyrian; a lot of it I missed, but I got the general sense of his words, yes.”

 

“You never said.”

 

“I did not think it important. Missandei translated the essence of it. If you were being swindled, I would have tried to intervene.”

 

She pulls the silk covering her hair across her face as they pass through the outer gate of Vargoros’ palace. They speak little on the journey, although the silence is not heavy. Daenerys soaks in the quiet streets that wind through the homes of the wealthy, looking up at the cloudless sky, drinking in the humid air of freedom. What little they do say, they say in Valyrian, so as not to be identified as Westerosi.

 

“When we reach the tavern, we will be free to converse as we wish. It is a small, unassuming place, and I trust the people who own it... _ if _ they still own it, that is…”

 

“It shall be an adventure either way.” She says.

 

They cross the Long Bridge, and the city moves and shouts and shines around them. The night draws on but the shops still boast a flurry of customers dipping between them. People atop donkeys, horses, camels, sedan chairs, and coaches fill the street, and Daenerys fights to take it all in while sticking close to Ser Jorah and keeping her hair covered. People stop to look; she and her companion are paler than Volantenes are used to, but they are too busy to look for long, and they pass across to the west city with little scrutiny and a head full of noise.

 

There are more people on foot across the bridge, and the difference between the east and west is immediately apparent. The houses are smaller, crouched together, crammed into alleyways and piled atop their neighbours. The streets are dirtier, the stone more worn, and more beggars and homeless children sit in the gutters or peer out of side streets at the horses passing. There are also more slaves, their trade branded on their cheek, moving from one building to another, carrying tools and sacks of grain and jugs of wine. Several buildings are alive with music and revelry, women leaning on either side of their doorway, tears seared onto their cheeks, looking somehow both lascivious and apathetic at the same time. They pass through what is the marketplace during the day but now is a large, open forum. There is a squabble in one corner that turns into a fight between two groups of young men. There are couples embracing in the cloisters, only marginally trying to hide their activities. There are dogs and cats picking through the discarded pile of fish that didn’t sell during the day. The smell is strong, layered with rot and ripeness, with more elements to it than Daenerys cares to pick out. It reminds her of Meereen. It is the smell of life and business, of produce and productivity. They stick to the edges of the forum and then turn down a street that branches off it.

 

“I am getting the full tour.” She observes.

 

“I thought I should make your escapade worthwhile.” He replies.

 

By the time they reach the tavern, she is actually nervous; a foreign feeling that takes her by surprise. They dismount and walk the last leg, leaving their horses tied up in the lean-to by the kitchens. She catches Jorah laughing to himself.

 

“Something amusing, ser?”

 

“I am struggling to believe that I have brought you here. It is just...an unexpected turn of events.”

 

“How long has it been since you were here?”

 

He sighs. “Around fourteen years, I imagine.”

 

“Well, much has changed.” She says. She can hear the noise of patrons inside. Someone is singing a song in Yunkish Valyrian. There is the sound of a high-pitched, female laugh and then glass smashing. She is eager to go inside.

 

“We should say that you are my daughter. It will raise fewer questions. And perhaps you shouldn’t uncover your hair.”

 

She nods as he goes to open the door.

 

Hot air rushes out to meet them. The tavern is larger than she anticipated, the entryway crawling back and opening up into a small hall. There are no fires going except the torches on the walls. It smells sweetly of wine, and sourly of people. There are men and women gathered around almost all of the tables, drinking and talking, eating from pewter bowls and playing cyvasse. 

 

There are people other than just Volantene commoners. She sees red robes of the priests of R’hllor, the coloured beards of Pentos, a woman in a purple gown cut in the Qartheen style revealing one breast and another woman, so beautiful Daenerys openly stares, dressed in an intricately draped garment of a grey so dark it is almost black. She is a Braavosi courtesan, Daenerys guesses.

 

Jorah leads her towards the kitchen. She feels the eyes of a table of men following her, and before she can think better of it, she sends them a sharp look. Seeing she is not a slave, they glance away, and she is surprised that bravado works as such an efficient deterrent when one is not royalty. 

 

A man in plain clothes rounds the corner and smiles. He is older than Jorah by several years, she would guess, but there is power in his stance, and his broad shoulders speak of a life of manual work. His hair is greying, but still thick, and his nose looks to have been broken many times. His cheeks are red, his teeth are yellow, his brow is heavy and low over his dark eyes, and he has a tattoo on his right forearm that she cannot make out.

 

“Welcome travellers! A drink? A meal?” He looks to Daenerys, standing a head shorter than both men. “A room, perhaps?”

 

“Laz.” Says Jorah. Daenerys glances between the two and says nothing. The smiles slips from the man’s face as he peers at Jorah.

 

“Gods! Mormont, it’s you!” He switches from Valyrian to heavily-accented Common Tongue. He beams, shakes Jorah’s hand for longer than perhaps necessary. “So long it has been! Fool am I that did not recognise you!”

 

Jorah is smiling now, properly, like he used to among the Dothraki.

 

“You are forgiven, it _has_ been a long time, my friend.”

 

“Far too long! I’m surprised _you_ recognised _me_! Still, you look strong! Hardly the old man you should be, what is your secret?”

 

Jorah laughs. “I imagine you could still kick me to the dust, as you once did.”

 

“All in good faith, of course! Unless you give me reason to throw you out!” He seems to remember Daenerys, and immediately softens his boisterous laughter. “And who is this you have brought with you?”

 

“This is-”

 

“I am his wife.” She interrupts him. She racks her brain for an Essosi name from nowhere in particular. “Doreah.”

 

“Ah, another wife. I don’t know how you do it. And this one is young and pretty!” He laughs again. “Do not believe a word he tells you, he has no money!”

 

Jorah smiles at the teasing. She gauges more of their dynamic with each sentence spoken.

 

“Not all of us pay for company.” Says Jorah, and the man laughs again, loudly.

 

“This is true! You never did.” He turns to Daenerys. “He was a nobleman even when he was a sellsword. I thought his honour would choke him, or at least starve him. Come in, the two of you! I will get you a drink.” 

 

He turns to lead them through his tavern to a small table at the back. Jorah leans down to whisper to her.

 

“He is hardly fitting company for a queen, I must apologise for his vulgarity.”

 

Daenerys rolls her eyes. “I lived with the Dothraki, ser. I have met much worse. I wouldn’t have come if I didn’t know what I was getting myself into.”

 

“Doreah, this is Lazillo Natportas. We are old friends.” He says when they sit down. Laz pulls up a chair once he has brought them their wine. 

 

“He used to live here. He was a good fighter, and he never drank too much, so he kept my tavern in order and I gave him lodgings as payment. That was when he had nothing, he seems to be doing much better now. Your clothes are fine material, my friend.”

 

He pulls at the light fabric of Jorah’s sleeve. They deliberately dressed down for the excursion. What would he think of the clothes Jorah normally wears?

 

“Where do you live now?”

 

Daenerys waits. Jorah speaks. “Westeros.”

 

“ _ Westeros _ ?! What the fuck are you doing in Volantis then?!”

 

“Doreah is from a merchant family. We are here on her father’s behalf, negotiating a deal.”

 

“What does he sell?”

 

“Whatever people want to buy.”

 

He looks impressed. He leans back in his chair. Daenerys commits all of the details of their story to memory.

 

“Where in Westeros? I have never been myself.”

 

“Dorne.”

 

“You do not look Dornish, Doreah.” He says conversationally. He is not probing, but it is better to be safe than sorry, she decides.

 

“My family came to Westeros from North Valyria several generations ago.”

 

“That would explain your eyes. Old blood is difficult to wash out. I’m surprised you’re not marrying a lord, as fair as you are. Then again, I suppose he is  _ technically _ of noble blood.” He laughs again. Jorah narrows his eyes at him playfully over the rim of his cup. 

 

“How recent was this?” Laz asks, gesturing between the two. Since it is her lie, her spontaneous decision, Daenerys takes responsibility.

 

“Only a few moons ago. This is our first trip together.”

 

“Did he come to some agreement with your father? You are highborn, surely?”

 

“It was not arranged in that way. We married for love.”

 

He lets out a loud bark of laughter. She notices Jorah looks a lot more serious, and wonders if she is being cruel.

 

“Love? That does not sound like you, Mormont. He was never a romantic, never seemed too interested in all of that.”

 

“My first two marriages would leave even the most hopeful of men cold in heart. When I was last here, I never expected to love again, that is true.”

 

It certainly sounds true. She swallows.

 

“And here you are! Congratulations, my friend. And to you, my lady. He is a good man, he will face death to protect you, I imagine.”

 

She bites back an ironic smile, and notices Jorah doing the same.

 

“How is Krysti?” Asks Jorah.

 

“Very much the same. My eldest says she forgets things, but I believe he just doesn’t tell her what he thinks he has. She is angry with the current triarch putting restrictions on ingredients from Slaver’s Bay. Volantis is still proud. They will not trade with the Dragon Queen’s freed cities. It makes it difficult for Krysti to find the right ingredients for her famous stew. Customers are complaining.”

 

Daenerys’ interest is piqued. She cannot help but push for more information.

 

“You do not trade with Meereen?”

 

“Meereen has little to trade. It is Astapor and Yunkai that are causing the problems. There is enough material trade, but less in food and livestock. This is the problem. Some of the best spices come from the plains around Yunkai. The triarch do not want to give more money than necessary to cities without slavery, in case Volantene slaves get a similar idea.”

 

“What do you think of the Dragon Queen?” She asks, trying to make the question sound casual. She sees Ser Jorah’s hand curl into a fist on his thigh, but his face stays neutral.

 

“She has done a lot for a little girl coming from nothing, I will give her that. We are right to be scared of her, even if she is not yet eighteen.”

 

Daenerys is many years past eighteen. She wonders where this rumour about her age stemmed from.

 

“There is certainly interest in her on this side of the Bridge. People whisper about her in the streets, whores dress up as her to attract more business, the followers of R’hllor preach her coming outside their temples and in this tavern there has been talk of dragons being seen in the skies over Valyria. She’s certainly impressive. Whether or not she is capable of holding on to power, I do not know. She took Westeros easily enough, but that land is cold, small and wet. The people there have no passion, no intensity, no selfishness. Conquering Essos would be much harder.”

 

It becomes apparent that news of her visiting Volantis has not spread this far west. Of that she is grateful; people might not be on the lookout.

 

“It is said she has a lover in each of her cities; that is why they are held so efficiently. She is a great beauty, with fire in her belly, so she can bear no human children; only dragons. Have you seen your queen in the flesh?”

 

“No. I have seen one of her dragons, however.” She answers, beginning to enjoy the facade of it all.

 

“You have seen a dragon? What was it like?”

 

“Great, and terrible. Bigger than any animal I have ever seen. It was bigger than a whale, than a ship, with scales like obsidian and beautiful, terrifying eyes.”

 

“Then they really do roam the world again. It is the beginning of a new era.” He says. He looks almost happy at the prospect. “I would like to see one, someday.”

 

“Perhaps you shall.”

 

“News doesn’t always reach us here, you see.”

 

Daenerys takes another sip of her wine. Volantis red is usually too sweet for her, but this one tastes sharper, more exotic, as if the excitement of the evening has distilled in her drink. She resolves to pace herself; it wouldn’t do to be drunk in west Volantis when she is expected tomorrow morning for a visit to a temple.

 

“Were you not going to join a  _ khalasar _ , Mormont? Last I heard, you were heading to Vaes Dothrak.”

 

“Aye. Or there abouts. I was just...wandering.”

 

“Did you make it? That is where the Dragon Queen started her conquest. That is why they call her  _ khaleesi _ .”

 

“I did. I lived with them for several years. I never saw the queen, or her brother. I suppose she must have married Khal Drogo after I left. I travelled back to Braavos, then to Dorne, once I had a royal pardon from the new Lannister king.”

 

“As I have been sitting here, business as usual, you have been on all sorts of adventures! You went to Dorne, not the North? You are a Northern lord, are you not?”

 

Jorah looks down into the dark depths of his wine. 

 

“I gave up the right to call myself that. Even pardoned, it would be an insult to return to Bear Island. I forged a life for myself further south.”

 

“And met this lovely lady! Tell me your story, Doreah.”

 

“There is…not much to tell.” It is soothing to say it, as if in telling this stranger, it becomes true, as if she is no one, and her life is safe and predictable and unremarkable. It is a relief, to be nothing for an evening. “Jorah was in my father’s employ, overseeing shipments and protecting the cargo. He became his right-hand-man, and unafraid of menial work, despite his bloodline. I think my father liked that.”

 

“What does he think of you marrying him?”

 

There is a tugging in her stomach at this talk of a father she never had, in a life she never lived, as if she is grieving for something that never was, and never truly could be.

 

“He was sceptical at first. I spent a lot of time with Jorah in the four years he worked for my family. Purely business to begin with. I am an only child, and my father’s heir, so I’ve been helping run things since my girlhood. Things happened...slowly.” She says.

 

“How poetic! I know these things do happen. I am very glad you have softened him, my lady, he was always so surly and miserable!” 

 

Daenerys rests her hand over Jorah’s and it unclenches from a fist under her touch. Lazillo smiles between the two of them. She feels swept up in the pretense of it all, free and willing to play her part. She moves to be a little closer to her ‘husband’.

 

“What was he like when he lived here?” She tires of people talking to her about herself, and leaps at the chance to get a glimpse into Jorah’s elusive past.

 

Lazillo grins, all too willing. Jorah shoots her a concerned look, and she raises an eyebrow at him. 

 

“Strong and stubborn as an ox. He broke up a fight the first time I met him, and I gave him a drink to say thank you. He was relieved I spoke the Common Tongue, he could barely mutter a sentence in Valyrian back then.” He slams his cup down. His cheeks are even redder, his laugh even louder, with the drink. 

 

“Said he was down on his luck, just come from Lys, where he’d left the source of his misery. And good on him, I say! Never look back! He needed work as a sellsword, owned nothing but the clothes on his back, didn’t speak the language and had no idea of the culture. I said if he put his fighting ability to good use to keep the peace, I’d let him stay for a bit. It wasn’t easy, those years. This city has seen a lot of rebellions. All peace was uneasy. I was scared every day that my tavern would be torched, my wife and children killed, just because of a word I’d said in favour of the wrong politician, but he was never scared. Nothing used to rattle him, not men twice his size, not the spread of plague, not shortage of food, words of invasion, or even the persistence of whores. He was...unmovable. Not a  _ great _ conversationalist, you won’t mind me saying,” he nudges Ser Jorah’s arm on the table with a wide smile, and the latter shakes his head, his eyes mirthful, “But once you got under his skin, he had a lot of stories to tell. Even the occasional joke. Krysti says I can talk for hours. It was nice to have new ears to listen. When I never heard from him again, I thought he’d died.”

 

Jorah looks confused, his blue eyes trying to read Lazillo’s face.

 

“I thought, maybe, if you were alive you would come back, or even write.”

 

“I...did not think you would miss me.”

 

Lazillo’s grin is a little smaller, a little sadder. 

 

“Of course I did. You were here over a year, the closest friend I had.” He turns to Daenerys conspiratorially, indicating to Jorah with his cup.”He thinks he’s so  _ transient _ . Thinks if no one touches him, he touches no one. He lived here all that time and thought that if he kept himself to himself, no one would notice, or care, or think of him. I don’t think he ever got used to people caring.”

 

It is a truth she’d never considered about her oldest friend. He was always shocked when she expressed gratitude, or affection, or said she’d missed him, as if he needs to be in front of her to be important, or even present, in her life.

 

“Well he should get used to it now.” She says, honestly. She sees warmth soothe the lines of Jorah's face, tinge his cheeks with colour, cause him to glance at the tabletop in embarrassment. She squeezes his hand, and, as if instinctually, he relaxes his grip to knot their fingers together.

 

“I can’t imagine that should be too difficult. There was a time when Krysti looked at me as you look at him. Long gone, now. You make an old man happy just to see you together.”

 

He drains the rest of his wine and then toasts the couple with his empty cup. “All taunting aside, I am so very glad to see you at peace, Mormont. I wished it for the longest time. When I met him, my lady, he was a man who needed purpose, and now it seems he has found it. Is there anything more miraculous than love?”

 

Daenerys joins the toasts, and, still a little awkward, Jorah does the same. The roar of the tavern around her seems like distant music, the smell of the city the most exquisite perfume. She feels carefree for the first time in years. She is Doreah Mormont here. Daenerys Targaryen is miles away on a cold throne; the stuff of legends and nightmares.

 

They talk for hours. It already being dark, she has no idea how quickly the night passes. The numbers in the tavern shrink and swell, and several times their host excuses himself to go and help his wife and children with serving other patrons, but always drifts back over with more drink. In between his stories and questions, Daenerys speaks to Jorah, untempered by court, unhindered by anxiety. She asks him about the other places he visited in Volantis, the people he worked for, the slaves he made friends with, the future he had envisioned for himself. He seems more willing than usual to open up to her tonight, giving her details and anecdotes as she probes, filling the blank spaces behind him with surprising colour and personality. 

 

Jorah the Andal, Ser Jorah Mormont, Lord of Bear Island, the exile knight, the champion of the fighting pits, slaver, slave, bloodrider, general, Lord Commander, dead man twice over: she knows his titles. She knows his character from the perspective of Queen Daenerys Stormborn, but tonight she meets him anew. She knows he is loyal, brave, intelligent, reticent and reserved. She did not appreciate that he is also moral, kind, sarcastic, contemplative, humble, articulate and cultured.

 

Not to mention stubborn, self-deprecating, repressed, contrary, gruff and susceptible to emotional bias. 

 

She loves him so much she could burst. She daydreams of telling him as Lazillo recounts another embarrassing anecdote from their year together. She imagines his reaction, his happiness, ten years of longing finally returned, finally validated. Would he believe her? Would he think it too good to be true? Would he pull her to him immediately or still hesitate to touch even her hand?

 

Would he turn from her, after everything she has put him through?

 

The crown has never felt so heavy. Doreah Mormont may have her bear, but Daenerys Targaryen cannot. 

 

They drink and talk late into the night. The wine makes her feel more and more relaxed until she is practically leaning against her pretend husband as he talks. She goes quiet, and just listens to the rumble of his voice. She can feel it through where their shoulders touch. Only when it stops does she realise she has been addressed.

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“I said, it is getting late. We should head back.”

 

Daenerys wants to remind him of their host’s proclivity for late mornings, but remembers that she cannot let slip that she is a royal visitor. 

 

“Come on.” He says affectionately as she blinks away her drowsiness. Long winter nights seem to last forever, but now she wishes this one would.

 

“It was magnificent to see you again, my friend.” Lazillo shakes Jorah’s hand, patting him affectionately on the bicep, and he turns to Daenerys to give a small, respectful bow. “And to meet you, Doreah, has been wonderful. You must look after this man; he is not always good at being kind to himself.”

 

She smiles. Jorah looks embarrassed. “I will make sure to do so.”

 

Out in the street, the temperature has dropped. They mount their horses and move towards the bridge. Daenerys pulls her wraps closer to her body. 

 

“Are you cold?”

 

“No, ser. The air is refreshing.”

 

He moves away from her now; they are just two more people navigating the almost empty streets of west Volantis. Their pretense wanes as the sun rises. She tries to cling onto it.

 

“You have given me a gift tonight.”

 

“I have?”

 

“Yes. I was able to be normal, to be a woman and not a queen. I was able to meet someone new as an equal, not as a subject. Thank you, Jorah.”

 

“I’m very glad you accompanied me. I’m not...massively adept at maintaining friendships, and it was a comfort and a pleasure to have you with me.”

 

“You had a whole life here. There’s a whole history to you that I do not know.”

 

“My history is rarely pleasant or interesting,  _ khlaleesi _ .”

 

“It was interesting tonight. I had no idea how dejected a state your wife left you in. You have risen impressively since then.”

 

“Like Laz said, it was lack of purpose that almost killed me. Without something to fight for, without a reason to push on, it seemed as if the world had turned its back on me. It was talk of Targaryens that piqued my interest in renewing my life. It was meeting you that finally gave me purpose. It is your cause that rescued me from dejection.”

 

_ I don’t deserve such devotion _ , she thinks, and then berates herself. She has never had a thought like that. She has never stopped to consider that the love her people and her councillors have for her is misplaced. She is a queen; people should be devoted to her and it is absurd to think she has not earned it, and yet here she does. Here, for a moment, she falters. 

 

As they cross the marketplace once more, now with even fewer people around, she thinks of the palace she is riding towards, and delays reality a little longer. As they pass, she slips from her horse’s back, moves into the cloisters, and stops in the darkness between two pillars, tucked away from prying eyes. Ser Jorah notices, looks confused, stops too, dismounts, opens his mouth to ask if she is alright.

 

“I think I would have liked a life like that.” She cuts him off. She lets the material slip from her head. She wonders if her hair glows in the gloom. 

 

He says nothing, subtly processing the implications.

 

_ All my life I’ve longed for home. That is Westeros, that is the Iron Throne, that is the seat of my ancestors. I thought that was the only thing that could make me happy, the only way I could survive. Tonight is the first time I’ve tasted an alternative. Tonight is the first time that I’ve questioned the goal my life has been shaped by. _

 

“A house and a family, a business, even. Hard work, long days, money worries, passing unacknowledged through a street. A husband I chose. I never thought of those things before, I never had to, but now…”

 

“The alternative is always more appealing. We want what we cannot have.” He says. The last sentence is a little bitter; he is a testament to its validity. 

 

“Agreed. My family is my dragons and my advisors and my nephew-husband and my citizens. I cannot have a conventional family. Perhaps that is why I long for it now.”

 

_ A family with you, ser _ , she does not say.

 

“If that is what you want, you can have it. You can do whatever you want.” He says. He sounds tired. He moves closer to her.

 

“I cannot. You know this, my bear.”

 

“If it would make you happy, I would make it happen.”

 

She feels something hot and heavy rise in her throat, and she stubbornly swallows around it. She tries not to let her voice show that she is nearly in tears.

 

“I know you would.”

 

Here in the shadows, he is as much her husband as he is not. She is not a merchant’s daughter, and also not a queen. She is nothing. She could be anything.

 

_ I need to sacrifice that life so millions of others can pursue theirs in safety.  _

 

She feels drunk on the wine and the implications of her own words. She’s still blinking back tears as she speaks again.

 

“And you, Ser Jorah? Have I taken that life from you too?”

 

He moves closer still, until she stands with her back against the pillar, looking up into his earnest eyes.

 

“Yes. You have.”

 

“I am sorry.”

 

“Don’t be. I’d give up a lifetime of happy normalcy for one night, free in Volantis, with you.”

 

“Are we still free?”

 

“You are the liberator. You decide.”

 

She takes his hand. He gives it without hesitation. The world is once more warm and wine-soaked. 

 

“For a night. We can have a night. No one could deny us that.”

 

He smiles; a gentle and wonderful smile. He looks down at their hands. Her expression stays serious, her eyes stay on his face.

 

“I think we used it well.”

 

_ Not well enough _ , she thinks, as she reaches to kiss him.

 

When she took the throne, she didn’t expect to be kissing her Lord Commander in what is effectively a back alley in Volantis barely a year later, but that is what is happening, and she doesn’t  _ feel _ like a queen now. Doreah Mormont may kiss her husband, surely? The Free Cities may still have institutionalised slavery, but there are other ways of defining the word ‘free’.

 

The wine must have stirred something in him too, because he doesn’t freeze or wilt or tense with fright as he has in the past. He threads his fingers in her hair and pushes her back against the pillar, like he is free too, like he has let go. She is fast becoming addicted to the thorough and passionate way he kisses her, like he was born to do it, like he knows her rhythm already. She imagines their hearts racing in unison, separated by bones and skin and blood and someone else’s clothes. 

 

She kisses him until she is dizzy, until she forgets where she is, until they’re both breathing heavily into the lack of space between them, until he has no choice but to acknowledge that it is happening, and it isn’t an accident, and it isn’t a passing fancy. She’d keep him here until morning if she could. She’d join the wealth of Volantene women taking lovers out in the open, under the stars, in the streets, if she thought it wouldn’t be the wrong place to finally close ten years of distance.

 

When he pulls away from her mouth, his eyes screwed shut, his pulse racing, his nose against hers, she realises dawn is coming. Her vision is bleary, her mind is soft and malleable, her lips tingle, her body hums. She is struck, irrevocably, by a hot and urgent need to have him, as Doreah Mormont would have her husband, as millions of men and women have each other, as she  _ should _ be able to have him if it wasn’t for the delicate web of danger they’re thrust together in the middle of, a web of her own construction. She has sewn them into a trap. 

 

_ Gods, she aches… _

 

He turns to look at the faint light creeping over the horizon, outlining the hills in the distance, the houses of the town coming back to life.

 

He sighs. She hasn’t moved from the pillar. She wishes he would touch her again. She wishes time hadn’t broken their spell.

 

“Come,  _ khaleesi.  _ The sun is rising, and they cannot know you have gone missing.”

 

Her bed calls, but to her and her alone. She sighs as well, with disappointment and resignation.

 

They get back on their horses and head towards the Black Walls. They part once they are through the gates. 

 

“Go round the servants’ entrance. They may talk, but we will be gone before it filters to Vargoros, I imagine.”

 

She nods her assent. “Goodbye, my knight. I’ll see you at breakfast.”

 

As he leaves to enter from another door, she calls after him softly.

 

“Thank you for tonight, Jorah.”

 

“My pleasure,  _ khaleesi _ .”

 

He disappears before they can get bogged down once more in reciprocal gratitude.

 

She slips between the sheets of her borrowed bed and sighs. Her blood boils but her eyelids droop. Earlier this night she felt free, but now she sees she is more trapped than before. 


	40. Chapter 40

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N Sorry this has taken a while! I had a crazy week last week and had no time to write this at all. I’m finishing up college but ironically I’m actually getting paid to write something now, which means that I have to prioritise that project even though I’ve been writing this one for over half a year now and I prefer it anyway. Still, it can’t really be helped, so updates are likely to be a little slow now.
> 
> I can’t believe I’ve written 40 chapters of this thing. Thank you so much everyone for your continued support and lovely words; I may well have stopped long ago if it wasn’t for you brilliant people!

Reality follows, and Daenerys finds the splendour of royalty has tarnished a little after her tryst in Volantis. 

 

Only Missandei seems to notice her absence. She sleeps for a few hours before she is roused for breakfast and, tired and irritated to be confined within walls and politics, Missandei alone seems to put two and two together.

 

A Volantene noble is offended when she refuses his wine, on account of not wanting to feel any drowsier, and his harsh reprimand almost sparks the fire in her. A calming word from Missandei, a grounding hand on her arm, and a careful smile soothes the anger. She retires early and sleeps deeply, dreaming not unpleasantly of red vapour, cool water and sweet fruits.

 

Then they are on the move again. The passage through Bhonash is uncomfortable since they don’t stop anywhere, but Daenerys feels strangely like she can breath again. Her escort of Unsullied makes her feel as if she has her  _ khalasar _ back, as if she is again wandering towards an uncomplicated destiny with her first concern being water and food. She is surprised to find that she longs for the Great Grass Sea, to veer North and find the grass and dunes and heat of her formative years. She watches Ser Jorah turn his face to the horizon, and knows that he is thinking the same thing.

 

The tents she sleeps in are more sturdy and more comfortable, the meat she eats is more tender, the clothes finer, the sun weaker, and yet she wouldn’t say the journey passes quicker, or more enjoyably. The best part is that the rules on what is ‘proper’ relax slightly. She sleeps beside Missandei on her mat one night, the two of them sharing silks and cushions. When Missandei wishes to join Grey Worm, she asks Ser Jorah to guard her, giving the excuse that the harsh open landscape makes her uneasy, when in fact the opposite is true. It is a few hours before he moves from outside her tent to inside. It is then a few minutes until he lies down with her and she is blessed with another dreamless night next to him. 

 

_ The ache is demanding, but I must restrain myself. Tents are made of fabric, and with nothing else to look at, eyes may well focus inward here… _

 

And then the land changes, grows barer and hotter, grows redder and dryer, and she is in Meereen once more, walking through the gates and feeling like she has barely been gone a week.

 

\- - -

 

They take the long route to the pyramid. 

 

He is reluctant to stray too far from Daenerys, but the freedmen seem ostentatiously glad to see her, and swathes of them fill the streets and swamp the party. They stand on each other’s shoulders, lean out of windows, sit atop arches and peer over rooftops. They reach for Daenerys’ hands, hair, clothes, legs, anything they can touch. The people here love her with an adoration that they have never shown in Westeros, the cynical respect of Flea Bottom paling in comparison to the hot maternal devotion of people that owe their lives and liberty to her. Their eyes fill with hope and happiness, and they reach out just to feel an essence of her.

 

_ This is the reception she deserves _ , he thinks, struck with familiar pride and passion. 

 

Not everyone is happy to see her, he knows. There are those lurking in side streets, standing at the back of crowds, looking gloomy and resolute. He is on edge until they reach the pyramid, waiting for someone to throw something, or an arrow to come from nowhere and strike her through the chest before he can react. He unclenches his fist from around his sword’s pommel only when the doors close behind them and the cries of “mhysa” are muted.

 

And there is Daario Naharis, exactly where they left him.

 

The years have added little to him, except dulled the glow of his skin and added more hair to his head and chin. He has no more visible scars which, although he should have expected no different, still sits oddly for a sellsword. His clothes are simple and well-made, and the occasional grey hair threads through the mass of well-oiled brown. He sits upon the chair where Daenerys had sat, and for once he is not  _ lounging _ . He is upright and alert, a guard at either side, peering down at his guests with barely-contained anticipation.

 

When he sees Daenerys, his eyes stop roaming. They stick to her, shining with open affection, and he visibly sighs, as if in relief.

 

It makes something long-dead stir in Jorah’s stomach. And he thought he was so far past jealousy…

 

“ _ Khaleesi.”  _ The Tyroshi breathes. He stands, and descends to meet her half way up the staircase.

 

She lets him take her hands. His pearly grin splits his face in two and fills it with the roguish charm he is so famous for. His dark eyes glitter. Daenerys smiles back.

 

“Daario Naharis. What a long time it has been.”

 

“Far too long, your grace. It is wonderful to see you once more in your city.”

 

Jorah thinks perhaps he will greet Grey Worm first, but he doesn’t. He turns to Jorah.

 

“Mormont! It is good to see you too, old man. Not looking as old as I remember, however! Either home agrees with you or my mind has been exaggerating.” 

 

And there is that deprecating humour that Ser Jorah has definitely not missed. He bows in response to Daario nevertheless, and smiles politely.

 

“Daario. As unchanged as ever, I see.”

 

The Tyroshi grins again and slaps Jorah on the bicep in a jarring display of camaraderie. Ser Jorah almost stumbles with the shock of it.

 

“Nonsense. I have gained the years you have lost! Still as strong as ever, though.” He adds.

 

He turns to the rest of the party. “ _ Torgo Nudho _ , I am glad to see you too. I imagine the wars in Westeros have left you with many a tale to tell. And Missandei, I have missed you as well. Finally some proper Meereen Valyrian shall be spoken around here! Come, my friends. I’m sure we have a lot to talk about.”

 

Returning to the council room, with its lofty ceiling, bare stone surfaces and breath-taking view, is almost surreal, not to mention the fact that they are all together again, the five of them, as if the conquest of Westeros had not even happened. Only now things are different, he supposes. Grey Worm does not stand by the door, but takes his seat at the table. Missandei goes to sit beside him boldly, without a moment’s hesitation. Daario Naharis sits in the seat Daenerys used to occupy; the seat of the city’s ruler. Daenerys herself sits at the other end of the table, Queen of Westeros as well as the Breaker of Chains, in her pale Westerosi clothes and her hair braided somewhere between  _ khaleesi _ and Lannister. She does not look upon Daario with a tangible softness that others seemed to miss but Jorah always felt acutely. No, she is happy to see him, but her gaze is polite, not scalding. 

 

She nods for Ser Jorah to sit beside her, and he does so.

 

Small talk is exchanged; his least favourite social nicety. He answers when addressed directly, but leaves the banter to Daenerys, who throws Daario’s teasing probes back at him with practised ease. 

 

“I am glad to see you all still in one piece. We have heard stories of the Cold Men, but perhaps you finished them off after all, Dragon Queen?”

 

“My children and my generals fought valiantly. The rumours were, unfortunately true, and Death came for us all. We defeated it, however. And then I took the throne.”

 

Daario looks unabashedly impressed, leaning back in his chair.

 

“Just as you promised you would. Just as you always wanted to. You are endlessly inspiring, your grace.”

 

“Thank you. As I said, I had help.”

 

His eyes flick over Ser Jorah and Grey Worm. “Of course.”

 

“And we have been grateful for your reports. Are things here as bad as my Hand tells me? We came after more and more words of unrest.”

 

Daario’s jaw is a little tighter as he answers. 

 

“They have...not been easy, this is true. We had two major uprisings, but all messages we sent were recaptured. During the last one I lost a third of my forces in keeping the rebels at bay, but our council in Astapor stayed true and sent reinforcements. It is not the common folk, your grace, but rather the sons of lesser nobles who, as most men do, seek to place themselves above those their families enslaved. It is the Sons of the Harpy over and over again. We wrangle control back just for another group to take up arms. It has been...tiring, but nothing compared to the conquering of a country.”

 

“I am so grateful, Daario. I trusted you with my cities, and you’ve kept the peace.”

 

“Uneasily.”

 

“I managed to walk here without being attacked. The pyramid is still standing. Even Volantis seems unwilling to challenge you. Uneasily, perhaps, but successfully.”

 

It is unusual for Daario to sell himself short. Jorah watches him smile humbly. 

 

“As my queen commanded.”

 

She smiles back, and it carries a shadow of the smile she used to give him at council meetings. Jorah would be concerned if it didn’t make him so nostalgic.

 

“I will help in any way I can. I will stay as long as I am needed.”

 

“Then you will never leave, your grace.” 

 

And his voice drops several decibels, and Jorah has spent so long tuning himself in to every suggestion, every quirk, every tactic, that it rings so obviously in his ears. If the others notice, they do not react. Daenerys merely smiles tightly again.

 

“We should have something to eat before the full briefing. We have been travelling since dawn.”

 

“Of course, where are my manners. I have prepared a meal for you in the balcony gardens. Then I’ll have someone show you to your rooms. I...usually stay in what used to be your chamber, your grace, but I have moved out in order that you might feel properly at home.”

 

Daenerys looks a little embarrassed. To his credit, Daario does not.

 

“You shouldn’t have.”

 

“Well, I did anyway. It would reflect ill on you to refuse my hospitality.”

 

It is a daring jibe to throw at the Queen, but it is Daario, and so it bounces off her pale skin, leaving only a wry smirk in its wake.

 

“Very well. Thank you for your  _ graciousness _ .”

 

As much as the old jealousy makes itself known, the nostalgia is stronger, more certain, and more pleasant, so Jorah decides to bring that to the front of his mind instead of age-old bitterness that has long outstayed its welcome.

 

“We’ll discuss strategy after dinner, then.”

 

\- - -

 

Daario is a drinker; something Jorah had forgotten. He cannot begrudge the man his gaiety, and, however irritating his lack of discretion may be, dinner is not a dull affair.

 

There are high spirits all around, and for a moment, they may have taken the whole trip for leisure, just to be back where they started, above Meereen, surrounded by sandstone, laughing over wine and olives, taking playful jabs at one another and comparing histories. Jorah, though he says little and laughs sparingly, feels content, happy, relaxed,  _ glad _ to see Daario and glad to be back in a room, in a building, he never thought he would be allowed into again.

 

And she seems happy. After several cups of wine she leans against Missandei and laughs into her hair. Her cheeks flush and her eyes glisten, and she trades taunts and flirtations with Daario as if there was no history, as if tension between them was unthinkable.

 

_ Perhaps we never should have left Meereen _ , he thinks treacherously. 

 

After dinner they talk more. It is mostly strategy, and although official business drains the wine from Daenerys’ system, it seems Daario gets bored fairly quickly, and they resolve to finish the following day. Ser Jorah spends the rest of the evening with Missandei and Grey Worm, visiting the barracks where the newly-freed used to gather and reuniting with faces almost forgotten. He thinks Daenerys will want to spend some time alone with Daario. Or perhaps, if she does not, he will want to spend some time alone with her, and she will be too polite to refuse. Missandei glances over at him more than once as they talk to their Meereen men, and he cannot decide if her look is more pity or concern. Either way he resolutely ignores it, and the implications of Daenerys and Daario being reunited.

 

That night, his queen calls him to guard her again, but the hour is later than usual, the blood higher in her cheeks, and she says very little before falling asleep. 

 

He doesn’t dream, as he usually doesn’t beside her, but he doesn’t sleep much either.

 

The next day he rises before her and leaves, as usual. He bathes and changes, and, since its barely past dawn, he goes to take in the view from the top of the pyramid and wait for the day to start. His head is full of noise, not all good, not all bad, full of information and strategy, full of emotions he does not know what to do with, and the air is cold in the winter mornings here.

 

When he arrives, somebody is already there.

 

“I did not expect to be alone with you so suddenly. I should have more conversation planned.” Says Daario, after a few moments of very awkward silence.

 

“I apologise. I’ll leave you to your thoughts.” He replies, and goes to leave.

 

“I...didn’t mean to come off so harshly. We can talk. There is much I need to know.”

 

Jorah sighs. It is a little early for him to be wanting company, and he rarely, if ever, has actively wanted this man’s, but perhaps they  _ do _ have things to talk about.

 

He goes to the ledge, looking down at the vast expanse of stone sloping below, the city climbing upwards like orange coral in the early sunlight. He sighs again. Daario turns to look at him.

 

“When I heard you were joining the Queen’s travelling party, I was surprised. No news reached me since you left after we last met.”

 

“She told me to find a cure, and I found one.”

 

He blows a laugh through his teeth, disbelieving.

 

“That is so typical of you, Mormont. She gives you an impossible order and you... _ find a way _ …”

 

“Aye.”

 

“Where was the cure?”

 

“The Citadel.”

 

“Did it take long?”

 

“A single night. All night.”

 

“Was it painful?”

 

“Indescribably.”

 

“ And you’re not one for exaggeration.”

 

Jorah turns his back to the view and leans his elbows on the balustrade, tilting his head up to watch the sun slowly creep down the face of the harpy. He speaks again when it reaches her lips.

 

“I was fortunate. A maester-in-training knew my father. He risked his position and his life attempting a dangerous cure, forbidden by the Citadel. If it hadn’t been for my name, if he hadn’t learned it, if he hadn’t been brave, if he hadn’t read the right book, well…”

 

He takes a deep breath in through his nose. He feels his lungs fill with crisp air, and is once again struck by the shock of his continued existence. He is still alive, still serving, still pushing onward, despite everything. After so vividly remembering death, after staring it in the face again and again, he is occasionally stunned by the fact of his own body.

 

“But it was, and he was, and it worked. And you are alive and well.”

 

“Yes. I am alive and well. And back in Meereen.”

 

More silence. For Jorah, it is uncomfortable, but he suspects Daario is just deciding what to say next. He feels his dark eyes tracing his profile, studying him.

 

“Why do you look younger?”

 

“What?”

 

“I made a joke, but I realise now that I was right. It is not just my imagination. You look younger, stronger... _ better _ . Why is that?”

 

Jorah considers lying. He considers it, and then decides on something halfway between lies and the truth.

 

“The Battle with the Dead cost a lot, for all of us. What it took from me, someone gave back, just...too vigorously.” He finishes lamely. Men like Daario are gifted eloquence in abundance, and paired with his good looks and prowess, Jorah would consider it unfair, if he wasn’t so jaded by the idea of competition.

 

Daario laughs, as expected. Short and loud, echoing off the stone like the bark of a dog. 

 

“You haven’t changed that much.”

 

“Are you worried you will run out of material for your jokes?” Says Jorah, before he can think better of it. 

 

Daario laughs again, but, as all his laughter turned on himself rather than on others, it is softer and more pleasant. 

 

“Much has changed, that much is clear. The Queen says you are a lord as well.”

 

“Aye.”

 

“Congratulations.”

 

“All of the other Mormonts were lost in the Battle of Winterfell. I am all that is left.”

 

“I am sorry.”

 

“As am I.”

 

“But you are as you were always meant to be; the Lord Commander of her Queensguard. I am quite surprised she forgave you. She has always been true to her word.”

 

“It took a lot to prove my allegiance once more. She did not forgive lightly.”

 

“I thought she had forgiven you when you arrived with Lord Tyrion. I knew she had forgiven you when she sent you away after the burning of Vaes Dothrak. Her heart needed less time than her vows, it seems.”

 

“I like to think I have done my time.”

 

“As have I done mine. It is not easy loving her, as I’m sure you are aware. Out of all the women I have known, she was the most difficult to win. I don’t think I ever even got there.”

 

_ You didn’t _ , Jorah doesn’t say. 

 

“She needed my help. She saw my suffering. She recognised my loyalty. That is all. I am grateful.”

 

“Of course! And it has brought you glory! I think perhaps I should have accompanied her across the Narrow Sea and you should have stayed here to watch over her cities. Then I would be sleeping in the Red Keep with gold dragons on my epaulets and the Queen at my side, and you would be atop a desolate pyramid with a snake pit beneath your feet, cutting their heads off one by one.”

 

“You would like some jewellery?”

 

“Ha! See, not without a sense of humour.” 

 

“Too much time spent with Lord Tyrion, I fear.”

 

“Makes for better conversation anyhow! Tell me, what of her husband?”

 

“Jon Snow?”

 

“Isn’t that a bastard name? I knew a man in Yunkai with this title. Far far from home. How has he married the Mother of Dragons?”

 

Jorah wants to say it escapes his understanding too, but he refrains. “He was the son of the last Warden of the North, the heir to Winterfell, with an army at his back. She took him as Prince Consort so people would not call him the King in the North.”

 

“Political, I see. And do they like each other?”

 

“Yes.” He says simply, wishing for another, any other, topic of conversation.

 

“That is a blessing for her, at least. Kings and Queens so rarely like each other.”

 

“He is not King. He is Prince Consort.”

 

“Of course, our queen would not allow a man to take any of her power! He better be seven feet tall, or else I shall be offended.”

 

“He is not. He is shorter than you. And younger.”

 

“Is he good-looking?”

 

Jorah frowns. “Aye, I suppose. In a Northern way.”

 

“A ‘Northern’ way! Ha, I like that. Does he brood, like you? Does he have your pretty blue eyes?”

 

Jorah sends him an exasperated look and grinds his teeth together. Atop a pyramid, gossiping with Daario Naharis about men like washerwomen is not where he thought he would ever end up.

 

“He is darker than I. He is a Stark.” He lies, before remembering that it isn't a lie.

 

“And short? And young? Only a boy! She cannot be too happy.”

 

“She seems to be.” He says. He gets a perverse pleasure from making Daenerys’ marriage seem more successful than it is, if only to take Daario down a peg or two.

 

There are a few moments of silence. The sun rises, and the city below begins to stir. There are priests singing in the temple before morning prayer. A loud crash comes from somewhere near the market. The sea begins to shimmer in the Bay of Dragons.

 

“There is a woman I could have. She is the daughter of a diplomat Daenerys installed in Astapor. I see her when I go to make negotiations. She has a sharp mind and a sharper tongue. She reminds me of the Dragon Queen a little.” 

 

He laughs at himself, and it sounds bitter.

 

“She is not so much like Daenerys, though. She keeps less close. She lets her feelings be known. She is hot in the places Daenerys was cold. And she is available. And she loves me.”

 

Jorah is less bitter and more bored by his trademark bragging, but he humours him.

 

“Congratulations. I hope you will be happy together.”

 

Not the response he wanted, but perhaps the response he expected, Daario powers on.

 

“That is the problem; I was not sure I wanted her. I suppose, even after all this time, I never believed a woman could leave me behind. Not entirely anyway. It was lonely here; I have been a soldier, a turncloak, a gambler, an assassin, always surrounded by people and easy company, but suddenly I was a ruler. It is...all responsibility and little fun. I used to keep myself happy by imagining her turning her fleet around, abandoning her throne, and returning to me…”

 

He is embarrassed by his own admission.  _ He should be, _ Jorah thinks. Part of loving Daenerys is loving all of her, the conqueror as well as the woman, and that means knowing that everything will come second to her destiny. 

 

“And then she didn’t. Her letters were not even  _ written _ by her. She had left me watching over her little patch of Essos, alone in the corner of the world in a position I never wanted. And then I grew bitter. I felt used. I felt as...well, as women I have known in the past must have felt. She had taken me, wrung everything from me, and then left me for good. I was angry.”

 

When he phrases it in this way, Jorah cannot blame his anger. He is more placid than Daario, older and more weary, less flamboyant and more steadfast, but he has, he will admit, occasionally resented himself for choosing Daenerys when there was so obviously little to gain. He never resented her, but he did blame himself, but that was before…

 

Before Winterfell and Cersei’s dagger and the dreams of red. That was before the night in Volantis when he thought maybe he had waited long enough.

 

“It is not your fault, Daario. It is not her fault either. It is unpleasant...but it is the way things are.”

 

Daario looks at him curiously. It is an expression he rarely wears when observing Jorah.

 

“And you have endured it for longer, and with much more dignity. I used to mock you when she was in my bed, and now I suppose I am no different from you.”

 

“I suppose not.”

 

“How? How do you endure it without getting angry?”

 

He swallows. He feels the heat of untempered emotion forcing its way up his throat, so he forces it back down again.

 

“I cannot make her love me, and I will not. That’s not the reason I follow her. I believe in her, I  _ want _ to serve her, I wanted to see her take the throne because she is good and she deserves it. My...feelings were inconvenient, but nothing to scream about, or force her to confront. It is difficult, I will not deny, but I suppose...that’s what love is.”

 

“What is it?”

 

He sighs once more. In front of Daario Naharis, he breathes the truth he has come to know so well. 

 

“To give without expecting anything back.”

 

For a moment, he sees Daario’s face tighten, his jaw clench, his eyes glisten with  _ something _ , and then he swallows it down and laughs weakly.

 

“You’re  _ noble _ . I forgot how noble. We are different. And yet you are by her side, in her favour, in her words; you are the victor after all.”

 

He wants to scoff at the term ‘victor’, but then is distracted.

 

“Her words?”

 

“Yes. When I spoke with her last night, she mentioned you often. She is clearly very glad to have you with her. There was once a time when I thought she truly would execute you, and now you are essential to her once more.”

 

“Like I said, we’ve been through a lot.”

 

“And that is why I bring up another woman; I think I will marry her. I think I will  _ let myself _ love her. Maybe I was waiting to see Daenerys again, to...I don’t know,  _ prove _ something.”

 

He is a little more interested now.

 

“And did it? Prove something?”

 

“Yes. She doesn’t love me anymore. I wonder if she ever did. She has a new look in her eyes, like there is someone else. I am disappointed to hear it is a short Northern boy, but we do not always get to choose who we love. Perhaps that is why she barely mentioned him; to save me.”

 

Daenerys is not cruel, she just expects everybody to be as strong as her.

 

“Love was never a big part of her plan. She built it with Drogo, she happened upon it with you and perhaps she decided upon it with Jon. It is not a priority for her, I don’t think. It is either a tool or a pleasure, but not a life. That is the strongest way to be, perhaps.”

 

“She used you as she used me.”

 

“She didn’t. I was never under any illusion. I gave because I wanted to. She took because I gave. It is that simple.”

 

“These things can never be simple.”

 

_ And yet _ , Jorah thinks,  _ they are _ .

 

“I am a prouder man than you.” Says Daario, and in it, Jorah hears ‘you are subservient, I am a leader’. He would be offended if he felt at all threatened by Daario. “I could not wait so long, and she actually  _ gave _ me some affection, unlike you.”

 

Oh, he wants to gloat. He wants to take years of casual teasing and throw it back at Daario. But his ego was never that demanding, and he is not one for showing off. Not to mention, he will not endanger Daenerys, even though he begrudgingly admits that he trusts Daario not to speak it elsewhere.

 

No, he won’t say anything. That would be stooping to his level, and he is not a child.

 

“You should marry your diplomat’s daughter. She is here, within reach. She will bring you happiness, not grief.”

 

Daario rolls up the sleeves of his shirt, exposing strong, scarred forearms. Jorah has no scars anymore; as far as his skin is concerned he has fought no battles.

 

“You give wise counsel. I actually intend to do as you suggest. This visit of the Queen’s was a last, desperate hope of winning her back, and I see now that she is taken. With the throne, or Jon Snow, or some other man, I have no way of knowing. I never had a way of knowing.”

 

There is such a reflection of his own strife in Daario’s words that Jorah feels a swell of awkward pity towards the man he once considered a rival he had no hope of standing against. He thinks of seeing Daario leaving Daenerys’ room, and his heart twinging and tugging, after so long of convincing himself he was impenetrable and immovable. Jealousy that barely crept through the cracks raged inside. And now, they will leave Daario, and he and Daenerys will carry on. He thinks of the smell of her hair, the softness of her skin as she curls against him at night, the way her lips taste when she is tearful.

 

It feels like closure. A delayed, ridiculous closure.

 

“None of us do.”

 

Daario smiles. “I think you do. You know her better than everyone now. You pepper her sentences. You pervade her life.”

 

Jorah tries not to show how much this pleases him. He trusts his trademark stoicism.

 

“Do you not have a diplomat’s daughter, Ser Jorah? Do you not wish to give up this futile chase and find love, now you are a lord?”

 

He thinks this is none of Daario’s business. He dismisses him in his usual way.

 

“I serve my queen. To leave and marry would be to abandon her, and neither she nor I would want that.”

 

Daario’s smile creeps up half his face, lopsided and roguish. “I believe that last part now. Very well. It is a lonely life, Jorah the Andal.”

 

He wonders if Daario knows he is not an Andal. He wonders if he cares. He wonders where he first heard the nickname given to him by long-dead Dothraki warriors.

 

“Less lonely than it has been.”

 

The sun covers the harpy now. A bell rings from below; they are summoned for breakfast. 

 

“We mustn’t keep our friends waiting.” Says Daario, and there is a sentimentality to the way they leave the balcony together and walk back down the stairs. As they reach the dining hall, the Tyroshi gives Jorah one last lingering look, not quite happy, not quite sad, contemplative and curious without asking too much, like he is taking in a sight he doesn’t expect to see again.

 

“Your queen awaits, Lord Commander.” He pats Jorah on the shoulder in a manner that is genuinely friendly.

 

When they enter, everyone else is gathered. Daenerys looks from Daario to Jorah as they enter, and smiles in amused confusion at them arriving together.

 

Daario looks at the empty seat beside her, and gives Jorah a final pointed glance before moving to sit next to Missandei. Jorah sits in the empty seat and feels like he can finally breathe again.

 


	41. Chapter 41

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! You'd think being stuck inside would mean I have more time to write, but actually no! I have a lot of college work to do and I'm kind of panicking about my source of income being obsolete now so I haven't really felt like writing. I was gonna do this chapter and the next chapter as one big one, but I didn't want to rush it and I think this works out better in terms of pacing anyway.
> 
> I hope you're all staying safe and staying INSIDE. It's killing me, but we'll only get through this if we stick together! On a lighter note, have some fanfiction to take your mind off things!

The time not spent in strategy meetings is spent on the ground in the city.

 

Daario has built new living sectors, a new library and several homes for children, where orphans can go to be looked after and educated. Daenerys is happy to see he has been using initiative, and the city is already reaping the benefits, but she cautions him on funnelling too much gold into new projects and failing on the upkeep of older ones. The house of the healers needs expansion, and more funding for growth. The slave markets need to be converted into a more proud and positive space. The fighting pits need to be monitored more carefully.

 

The word ‘mhysa’ rings in her ears; what sort of mother feeds her children to wild animals, or pits them against each other for sport? She wants to close them entirely, but upon broaching the subject with Daario, he is reluctant. 

 

“They need an outlet for violence, your grace. Only freedmen may fight, and no one is forced to. It has proven very popular with ex-slaves and those of noble blood alike. It is an efficient peace measure, and I would advise against removing it.”

 

And how can she argue? She has not been here, she has been conquering a different land of different people. Daario is Essosi, he has presided over this city for long enough to know it well, and he knows its intricacies and sensitivities. She must trust him now she is here as she had when she was not.

 

She is trying to acclimatise to being a guest. Daario holds a festival in the marketplace to celebrate her visit, and she sits beside the seat of the ruler, not upon it. In a way it is liberating, in another it feels like pandering.

 

Being in her old chamber is strange, especially when she considers that Daario has been living in it since she has been gone. Some of the furnishings have changed, but the layout is essentially the same. She wonders if the suggestion of Daario, the essence of him that lingers not unpleasantly, is something real in the room or just her imagination. She can almost see him moving around, surveying the city from the balcony, running oils through his hair at the huge ornate mirror, stretching out on the bed, reading, writing, drinking, thinking within its walls. She wonders if he has had women here. She wonders how many others have slept in the bed they once shared.

 

As she combs out her hair one evening, she remembers the conversation they’d had the night of her arrival.

 

_ “Are you tired from the road, khaleesi?”  _

 

_ “I feel as if I have been travelling my whole life. This was not much. Not compared to what has come before.” _

 

_ “I suppose the road to the throne was not easy?” _

 

_ “No, it took almost all of me.” _

 

_ “And was it worth it?” _

 

And how had she gathered an answer to that question? How could she possibly distill the enormous intricacies of her ambition and expectation into words that someone who didn’t have them, someone who now barely knew her, could understand?

 

_ “Yes. In the end, it was worth it. Which is fortunate, because it was the only path for me.” _

 

She had expected him to revoke her, to verbally spar with her as he often had. He had a penchant for engaging in pointless debate, purely for something to say.

 

But he hadn’t. He had sighed and said  _ “Yes. It was.” _

 

And then there had been more silence.

 

_ “You have been missed here. Greatly. By your people. All of your people.” _

 

He had somehow managed to put the emphasis on ‘all’ and ‘your’. He managed to make it about loyalty and about himself all in one smooth sentence. She admired it.

 

_ “I have missed it here.” _ She had said simply, truthfully.

 

He’d moved then. She thinks he meant to embrace her, but in an uncharacteristic show of insecurity, he had settled for just taking her hand. She’d surrendered it. He had been hopefully scouring her face, and what he found there clearly dampened his resolve further. 

 

It hurt to see him in pain, even as he struggled valiantly to mask it. She didn’t want to hurt him; she never had. She rarely meant to hurt anyone, especially if they showed her love.

 

_ Drogo, Jorah, Daario, Viserion, Jon _ ...those that loved her were rarely glad of it. She considers her history as a path of fallen and shattered hopes, of bodies that were unfortunate enough to get too close and get scorched for their troubles.

 

Her love is not simple, and asking for it is not without risk; that much is clear to her now. Few survive, and even fewer get what they seek.

 

_ “And you cannot stay?” _

 

She had said “ _ I can stay” _ knowing she would see his eyes light up before she finished with  _ “for a few weeks.” _

 

_ “You are the most important person in the realm. To think you once had nothing. To think I was once a sellsword! How time changes things…” _

 

_ “Yes, it has a habit of that.” _

 

_ “And now the world is yours, what do you desire?” _

 

That had made her think. What  _ does _ she want? There is catharsis in chasing something just out of reach, to power through your days with a goal in sight, to keep the boredom at bay and keep one focused. Now she has got what she has always yearned for, where do her intentions lie now?

 

She knows where they lie. She strove for the impossible once, and now she has gained it, she wants what has always been offered, but now she cannot have.

 

What an unusual turn of events; to stand with Daario in her old chambers, his eyes  _ begging _ , and to be thinking of Jorah.

 

He saw it was not him. He read it in the tightness of her shoulders as he moved closer. She hated to do it, but the cowards’ way out was easier, and he is not stupid. He dropped her hand.

 

_ “I want to keep what I have gained. I want the people I freed to stay free. I want my life to have made a lasting impact. I want to see my cities stable and my kingdom prosperous. And you are doing as well as I expected you would.” _

 

Praising him had felt odd. Their banter was usually so caustic that it felt patronising to give him a genuine compliment, like he was a troublesome child who had finally done something right. She had embarrassed herself, and perhaps him too, but his tight smile was hard to read.

 

_ “The order of things can turn upside-down, but life continues. It is constant work, but even the rebels prefer stability to chaos.” _

 

It is what she had been relying upon, and it was good to have it confirmed. She watched him move to a spindly-looking table in one corner of the chamber; a new addition since it had been hers. She watched him pick up the small, shining object on the tabletop and place them in a box. She wondered if they were jewellery or keepsakes, or had some more mundane function. Either way, he had forgotten to put them away, and he did so then methodically. 

 

There was a disappointed slope to his shoulders, and she was struck suddenly by the memory of Jon.

 

_ “Are you lonely, Daario?” _ She had asked, without considering the hurt she might cause.

 

He sighed. The sound was full of insinuation that it would have been heavier if he didn’t have a reputation to maintain.

 

_ “Yes. Sometimes. If I am not too busy.” _

 

She wanted to say ‘have you no friends you could bring here?’ or ‘why not take a lover or two?’ or ‘there is no rule to say you cannot have a family’ but all felt too patronising, too close to home, too pitying. Power is isolating, she knows. When you sit at the top of the pyramid, everyone around you looks so small and far away.

 

Eventually the silence became too awkward. She tread carefully with her next sentence.

 

_ “Perhaps you could find someone to share the burden with?” _

 

He finished putting the small, shining things into their box, and turned to look at her. There was a brief flash of pain across his features that she egotistically read as the usual trifle her lovers threw her way after being spurned: ‘there is only one I want, and she cannot, or will not, have me.’

 

But then he stopped his speech, retracted and examined it, and responded with more dignity, more hope, and perhaps more truth. How easy it is to get swept up in a feeling, that you lose all foresight!

 

_ “Yes. Perhaps I could.” _ He said.

 

There is was. They understood each other. It was over.

 

The rest of the evening had passed pleasantly. They’d talked specific strategy, and then descended into gossip. His wit was refreshing, his life full of local excitements she had missed, and their friendship was easy to slip back into. They’d spoken about Westeros, the battle, the Dead, the other freed cities, the Winter, the dragons, Grey Worm and Missandei, Jorah’s return and redemption, and even Jon Snow, very briefly, and without uttering his name. That still somehow felt inappropriate, and they sped over it with determination to be done with the necessary difficult bit.

 

She knew there was some low level tension between her Lord Commander and her ex-lover and regent. She made sure to sing Jorah’s praises as much as was suitable to show Daario that all had been forgiven and repaired. She wanted him to respect Jorah as he never quite had, to see him as valuable and level-headed, not wilting and submissive. She was careful to toe the line, however. There was no use causing more trouble by being too obvious with her feelings.

 

And now the air seems to have cleared, if not entirely then at least of the most pressing obstacle. To take Daario back for the time she is here would be easy, it would be gratifying, but it would also be cruel, and although she cannot truly say she ever loved him, the drive that was once there, the push towards closeness and passion, the desire for his company and his body, have long since faded. She thinks back on their arrangement with bittersweet nostalgia and a faint yearning for something that to her felt simple, even though it likely wasn’t. 

 

There is a travelling troupe of performers arriving in Meereen the following day, and Daenerys has been asked to attend as a guest of honour. Daario assured her that on their path through Yunkai they inspired awe and approval, and there could be no harm in going to see their spectacles. If she is honest, Daenerys is excited. It feels like she is  _ khaleesi _ again, with merchants and musicians and craftsmen eager to please her in the markets of Vaes Dothrak. 

 

As she goes to bed, she closes the doors to her balcony. The weather grows colder, the nights darker, and she thinks of the measures she will put into action when she returns to Westeros so they may survive the Winter when the sun does not rise for days.

 

\- - -

 

“If the display has pleased your grace, a man would like to show you into our tent.”

 

A Lorathi performer speaks to Daenerys after the show. He had done things with fire that Daenerys had only known herself to do. 

 

_ “A substance that channels flames but does not harm the skin, your grace.”  _ Daario had said as she gawked at the burning limbs of the apparently unharmed performer.

 

“What is in your tent?” She asks. The man had been almost entirely naked during his trick, but now was draped in a single sheet of green fabric; untailored with only holes for his head and arms, but shimmering with an impossible pattern of opalescence, like a mirage in the desert.

 

His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but it is not obviously sinister in nature. 

 

“There are more wonders within our tent. A member of our party with the gift of prophecy would offer her services to a queen only. A man has been asked to offer this to a queen. It is a prime feature of our party, although on this occasion, the woman offers it to a queen and no other.”

 

“The Queen will not be going anywhere unaccompanied.” Says Ser Jorah, level and firm, betraying no emotion and leaving no room for argument. The man turns his large, enigmatic eyes to him.

 

“A man will not refuse a guard’s entry. A man means to say the woman will offer only one reading, and that is to a queen. A queen may bring her men for protection, although it is unnecessary.”

 

Despite her harrowed history with magic, Daenerys is drawn to the supernatural still. She suspects her dragon blood is to blame. She looks to Jorah, who narrows his eyes.

 

“Is this wise,  _ khaleesi _ ? Dealings with witches rarely end well for you.”

 

“A woman is no witch. A woman speaks with God, and that is all.”

 

“Mirri Maz Duur took your first child, the House of the Undying almost took your others, are you sure it is worth the risk for some entertainment?”

 

Daenerys’ hard gaze cautions him not to question her in public any further, but she turns from the Lortahi performer to speak to him more quietly.

 

“It is likely a trick, as the rest of their performance is; to amuse and nothing more serious. She is likely just part of the show, and nothing to be wary of. Besides, I have no children left to take.” She adds, a little savagely, and in his expression she sees Jorah condede.

 

She turns to tell Daario that she won’t be long, but he is quite entranced by the body-benders; three beautiful dark-skinned women who twist their limbs in unusual directions. He watches with parted lips as one of them pokes her head through her legs.

 

She trusts that Missandei is safe, wherever she is, since she is with Grey Worm. The questioning look she throws at Jorah is met with a reluctant nod and they follow the man towards the prophet’s tent.

 

Daenerys expected silks of rich colours and gold threads, beads and incense, herbs and bells hanging from the ceiling, cushions and jewellery, or at least a large smoking fire. All she had to go on was the  _ maege _ from the villages her  _ khalasar _ had plundered and the Dothraki healers themselves. Priestesses and holy men are above this peddling of the future for coin, and the mysteries of the House of the Undying are kept a close secret, so she was not expecting towering stone walls and blue lips. 

 

She is surprised nevertheless. The prophet’s tent is plain and empty. She sits on a reed mat at the back, dressed plainly in brown animal skins stitched into a tunic that was almost Westerosi in style. There is a simple beige scarf covering her hair. Before her there is a mirror, face-up on the ground, and upon its reflective surface is a small fire, burnt down to embers and only the size of Daenerys’ palm.

 

The woman herself is no woman, but a girl. She is tiny, with thin arms, weak legs and a fragile-looking face. If she is emaciated, her whole body has shrunk due to lack of sustenance, for no bones protrude and she does not look gaunt, as starving people do. If she was born this small and feeble, Daenerys would assume it was an affliction of some sort, and not just a quirk of appearance. Either way, she could be seven, or seven-and-forty; there is little way of telling. She has the figure and face of a child, complete with a small mouth and wide eyes, but something in her posture, in the dark circles below her eyes, in the tightness of her jaw, adds years to her. 

 

“Daenerys.” She says when she sees her enter. Jorah bristles beside her; this person has no authority and no right to address a queen by her first name upon their first meeting. Daenerys, however, does not feel it as a slight, rather she is being identified by someone so far from her customs that she likely doesn’t even acknowledge her mistake.

 

“You have something to tell me?”

 

The girl is silent. She looks at Daenerys intently, but her gaze is so distant it feels as if she is looking at something much closer to her face, or impossibly far in the distance.

 

“Yes.” She says at last. Her voice is rough, like her throat is dry, but high-pitched and airy; a child’s voice. She beckons Daenerys and Jorah closer, and her headscarf shifts to show white hair underneath.

 

“Who are you?” Daenerys asks. She kneels on the mat in front of the woman, already a victim to her own curious nature. Jorah stands, his hand on Heartsbane’s pommel, his brow fixed in an expression of suspicion.

 

The girl blinks her huge, bleary eyes, once again unfocused on Daenerys, and continues speaking as if she genuinely hadn’t heard Daenerys’ question.

 

“You have been in Meereen for two weeks. Do you know when you shall leave?”

 

_ A strange question _ , Daenerys thinks. She answers anyway.

 

“No. Within a month, most likely. It depends how much work there is to do.”

 

“You have done all the work that is needed of you here.”

 

She bristles. “I cannot possibly. How would you know, anyway?”

 

The girl blinks again. The sheen that distanced her eyes a minute ago is blinked away. For a moment they are clear, and focused on Daenerys, and then she blinks again, and another veil is drawn over her irises. Daenerys wonders fleetingly if she is blind.

 

“When you return home, you will almost understand.”

 

“Almost?”

 

“A queen would like a girl to tell her her future?”

 

“Are you capable of that?”

 

The girl moves suddenly, and it startles Daenerys. She hears Jorah shift tensely behind her. The girl leans forward so her face is over the glowing embers of the little fire. She stares down at her own reflection, distorted by the heat from the small, smouldering pile. She looks up at Daenerys once more.

 

“Yes.”

 

Daenerys blinks at her for the silence that elapses. The girl looks expectant. Daenerys hastily glances at Jorah. He is observing the prophet closely, but does not look particularly apprehensive.

 

“What do you need me to do?”

 

“A girl needs your wrath and your love.”

 

“How do I give you that?”

 

“A token of each will do.”

 

“...Alright?”

 

In another unexpectedly fluid movement, the girl presents Daenerys with her hand. She extends her index finger, pad-up, towards her. Daenerys almost asks for more clarification, but the girl looks down at the fire.

 

“Mother of Dragons, you must burn a girl.”

 

“ _ Burn _ you?”

 

“Only a girl’s fingertip. That shall suffice for this reading.”

 

Daenerys frowns, but the girl’s face is clear, resolute, present. She shows no fear or trepidation. Daenerys certainly does as she takes her rough little hand and slowly lowers it to the embers. The girl nods encouragingly, and Daenerys presses the girl’s fingertip into the fire. 

 

Daenerys feels nothing, of course, but the girl clearly does. She convulses with the pain, lets out a short, sharp whimper, and Daenerys releases her. The girl does not remove her hand for several more seconds, however. She swallows back obvious tears, and then rips her finger away from the embers, rubbing the angry-looking blister already bubbling the skin.

 

The humanity that the pain granted her leaves only echoes on her delicate features as they retreat back into knowing ambivalence. She tucks her fingertip into her pink mouth and sucks at the wound, all traces of pain gone.

 

Daenerys feels more uncertain now. “And love…?” She asks.

 

The girl removes her finger from her mouth and rests her hands in her lap. 

 

“A kiss.” She says.

 

“Do you intend to poison your guest?” Asks Ser Jorah over Daenerys’ shoulder. She knows he has seen the lengths and methods her enemies will go to get poison into her system; what’s to say there isn’t death on this girl’s lips? Daenerys waits for her answer.

 

“A girl intends to inflict nothing upon either of you. A girl is a channel for the future, and the future is impartial, passive, and indiscriminate. If now was a queen’s time to die, why would a girl bother to offer her a reading? A girl has no objectives, no allegiances, and nothing to gain from a queen’s death.”

 

“Then why offer a reading?”

 

“It is what a girl must do. A girl shall read, she shall not inflict.”

 

Daenerys believes her. She is afraid, but not of this girl killing her. There is something in her knowing, aged gaze that tells her this. She is no longer naive, and more than anything she feels this might get her answers. What if this girl could explain her dreams?

 

Daenerys leans across the mirror, feeling the dying fire warm her ribs as she takes the girl’s face in her palms and kisses her. Her mouth is small and hot, her lips firm and assured, and Daenerys wonders how convincing the gesture needs to be to qualify as a ‘token’.

 

After a few moments of contact, a small movement from the girl signals that it is sufficient, and Daenerys pulls away. Her lips taste vaguely of smoke, and both women stare neutrally at each other until the girl nods, and Daenerys moves back into her kneeling position. A glance at Jorah reveals him watching the girl intently, as if waiting for a snake to emerge from her mouth, or for her to produce an antidote and drink all of it herself.

 

The girl slips her burnt finger back into her mouth and sucks on it thoughtfully. She stares unblinkingly at Daenerys, and Daenerys stares back.

 

“A queen has been visited by a red priestess.”

 

She hears Jorah shift behind her.

 

“Yes. I have.”

 

“A queen’s fate is altered. A red woman set a course and now a queen must follow it.”

 

“So she changed our...what,  _ destiny _ ?”

 

“No. A priestess can not do this. Fate cannot be changed. A priestess set you on the path. She is in a queen’s dreams?”

 

Daenerys nods mutely. Her heart thumps in her chest. 

 

“A priestess is trying to tell a queen something, but she is ineffective. It does not matter, anyway. It will be done.”

 

“ _ What _ will be done?!” Asks Daenerys, her voice pitched louder, the frustration of the last year of nightmares breaking her composure.

 

“The night is dark and full of terrors. The Dead do not bring the Dark, the Dark brings the Dead. The Winter will come anyway, but there must be a future.”

 

“A future?”

 

The girl nods slightly. “To get through the night, there must be more light. To get through ice, the world needs more fire.”

 

“I am a dragon, is this what you mean?”

 

The girl’s eyes take on their faraway look, her pupils flitting around as if reading invisible words suspended before her.

 

“A queen is the  _ Mother _ of Dragons. This is what a girl means.”

 

The fire starts smoking more. The grey tendrils creep up above the mirror, their reflections twisting with them. When Daenerys looks down, away from the girl’s eyes, she sees the smoke reflected in the mirror’s surface is changing, becoming crimson. As if caused by the change in its reflection, the real smoke in front of Daenerys becomes red too, vapour curling before her like the tail of the comet from many years ago, like blood in water, slowly seeping out and out until all of the smoke dances red before her unbelieving eyes. 

 

It is hypnotic, the dance of the red smoke. It draws her into her dreams, into the feeling of it ripping its way out of her body and drifting off, mingling with other strands above her, strands that came from....

 

She looks over her shoulder. Jorah is staring at the smoke with open horror. His hand is frozen on his sword’s grip, his eyes are wide and unbelieving, his brow frozen in furrowed confusion.

 

_ It’s the same smoke. It’s the dream. _

 

Daenerys, as if struck by lightning, whirls around to look at the girl again, smoke tangling in her pale hair and pooling around her pale face.

 

“The tent. Do you see a tent? Something happened before, with fire magic, and I dream of it. It’s something about that threshold, yes? Do I need to cross the threshold or not? How do I get back there?!”

 

The girl blinks vacantly as if she hasn’t heard Daenerys, and then her pupils shrink visibly, and she locks eyes with the Queen.

 

“A queen cannot go back, but she must go forward. What is stopping a queen is nothing, it is trivial, it is a matter of no importance. Follow your instinct, Dragon Queen. Do what you want to do, for once.”

 

The fire on the mirror sparks and flutters. It is growing from embers into flames before them, but Daenerys cannot look away from the girl, as if the answer to her cryptic message is written in her eyes. The flame grows hotter and bigger, Daeenerys’ cheeks glow with the warmth from it, the sound of crackling wood fills the tent, the smoke filling her nose and throat, but still she feels reluctant to look away.

 

The girl’s eyes drop their sheen once more. They are endless, like looking into the sea if you could peer all the way down, seeing every fish and plant and secret on the way to the bottom. They don’t so much as draw her in as keep her frozen, looking, reading, catching glimpses of possible answers that look like red vapour, but missing them, like chasing a fly through a maze. The flames grow, the heat grows, the noise grows, the smoke thickens.

 

She is wrenched backwards by Jorah as the fire singes the ends of her hair. It covers the whole surface of the mirror now, the glass melting and warping under its heat. She moves away from the girl and her empty, overflowing eyes.

 

“Come,  _ khaleesi _ , this could be dangerous.” He says to her, his voice husky and uncertain and so welcome in its tangibility after a brief part from reality that she almost collapses into him. She stands, he helps her. 

 

The girl’s eyes swivel to focus on him.

 

“The blood of the First Men endures.” She says to Jorah, in her clear child’s voice.

 

Daenerys watches him frown, watches him swallow, watches his face show _some_ amount of understanding.

 

She is guided from the tent by Jorah’s steady grip on her upper arm. She stops outside when she sees the fire-trickster from earlier. His eyes asks more questions than she is willing to answer, so she takes a gold ring off her little finger and drops it into his hand.

 

“Thank you. We will be leaving now.” She manages.

 

He bows his head, closing his fist around the offering. “A man is happy to have served you.”

 

On their way back to join the royal party, they share a loaded look. She knows he will not tell anyone, and she feels inclined to do the same. It’s as if they think they should discuss it, but cannot think of what to discuss. When they find Daario, a cup of something dark and glittering in his hand and his face flushed and merry, she forces a smile and pretends as if they had done nothing more than sit and watch another show.

 

She felt drowsy and disconnected in the tent, but now she feels wide awake. It is as if she has woken from a long, deep dream, and the sunlight feels impossibly bright, all sounds impossibly sharp, all thoughts impossibly clear. She sees every eyelash framing Daario Naharis’ deep, beautiful eyes, and watches them tangle as he blinks at her. He has asked her a question, and she has heard it.

 

“Yes, I am ready to return now. I have had a very interesting afternoon, thank you.”

 

She feels the ground warm beneath her sandals, nowhere near as hot as it used to get under the summer sun, but enough for her to _feel_ it. She hears the Lorathi performers murmuring to each other as she leaves. She feels Jorah so close to her as they return to the pyramid side by side that he could be melded to her flesh.

 

She can barely eat. Daario, Missandei and Grey Worm discuss what they’d seen that afternoon, what new drinks they tried, what incredible feats they witnessed. Missandei sends Daenerys a worried smile, that the Queen returns. She doesn’t feel like eating. Her stomach is a maelstrom of nerves, but the anxiety is not unpleasant, rather as if preparing for something important that she doesn’t know is coming yet. She feels her cheeks flush and her skin tingle, even as her mind whirs. She thinks of the endless possibilities of a reign that brings about the end of Winter. She thinks about being the only queen Westeros needs to see it through the darkest times. She thinks about the inevitable  _ thing _ that she will do to ensure peace and prosperity. 

 

The girl’s reading had been ominous, but it hadn’t been  _ bad _ , had it?

 

Jorah looks similarly lost in thought. He stares down at his equally untouched plate, and then meets her gaze. There’s impatience there too, as if he has come to a realisation he cannot put words to, as she has. He glances away again with what looks like embarrassment. The nervous energy gets stronger.

 

It’s like she’s waiting for dinner to be over, and once it is, she begins to realise why.

 

In the past when she’d left her room at night in search of somebody, it usually had a dream-like quality to it, like the darkness changed things around her, and her rationality with it. Tonight, it holds its breath, waiting, as she slips from chambers that didn’t feel like hers anymore with a clear head and determination.

 

The itch that became and ache is back, but it is more than that. It has transmuted from her lower stomach up into her chest, and although she knows the feeling well, she had hoped it would not rear its head in this way. Everything would be simpler if she could just go back to bed and wake up the following day and focus on ruling and her  _ destiny _ and her people, but she cannot do that. She will not be able to give herself over to her country if she doesn’t know what she is giving, and if she is not willing to give it to herself first. 

 

It isn’t what she  _ must _ do, but it is what she wants to do. She has seen fate, the ineffable shape of the future, and what does this matter in the grand scheme of things? Destiny does not tremble at such petty social conventions. Nothing is stopping her except herself, and she is tired of resisting.

 

It doesn’t occur to her until she has crept through the pyramid’s silent corridors and reached the door she is looking for that she may not be well-received. She is fortunate that there are no soldiers standing guard, but getting in was the last of her concerns. Her sense of purpose is so consuming, so thrilling, that she almost forgot that she is not alone in this. She feels the hairs on her arms and on the back of her neck stand to attention, the nervous fluttering in her stomach becoming crashing waves, the excitement and anticipation making her feel  _ young _ and  _ alive _ and…

 

And she isn’t afraid. Not anymore. She will look her desire in the face, and accept the inevitability of its pull. She will not give up, she will simply give in.

 

Swallowing heavily around a suddenly dry tongue, she takes a deep breath and slips inside.

  
  



	42. Chapter 42

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this took a while. So sorry for the wait, this chapter was really difficult to write, for reasons that will become obvious. I've had bits of this written for months, but the rest didn't come easily, so that's why it's been a hot minute. It was either write it detailed and bad or write it good, ya know?
> 
> I hope everyone is staying inside and staying safe. I've got a couple of other projects happening too, but I'll try and get back to regular updates xx

She has spent a lot of her adult life entering others’ bedrooms uninvited. Drogo’s was her tent, Daario’s was in her pyramid, Jon’s on her ship and then in her castle; how much is knowledge that they reside in  _ her _ home and how much is self-confidence that they want her there?

 

The familiar rush of liminality hits, the gratifying burst of energy that comes from advancing the front line, _not that it’s a battle, of course…_

 

_ Although… _

 

Waking people up is an exercise in power, she finds, especially when she is dressed and they are not. She feels her role in nighttime escapades is solidified by waking up those she wishes to visit, having already made up her mind.

 

Jorah is awake. He is sitting by the open window. He is wearing soft linen trousers and a loose shirt, free of weapons and armour, free of straps and rings and sigils, looking out on the moonlit city. The sky is clear and still. The drapes are not ruffled by even the slightest breeze.

 

_ Why is he awake? The hour is so late… _

 

At the sound of her entering, he glances up. Surprise registers across his moon-bathed face, and he opens his mouth to say something, but instead he sighs, the furrow of his brow sitting confused, but without any obvious trace of surprise.

 

She shuts the door behind her, leaning against it to soften the sound as it clicks into place. She could have locked it, for all he knows.

 

There is a long moment of silence. She feels completely calm, peaceful, almost, in his quiet company.

 

Finally, he speaks. She feels the words like earthquakes in the air.

 

“Sleepless once more,  _ khaleesi _ ?”

 

She thinks;  _ how could I sleep when there is so much to think about? _ And then;  _ with my days taken by ruling, my nights are my own _ . And then;  _ since Volantis, these quiet hours are my freedom _ .

 

Instead of speaking any of these thoughts, she sighs and says “I have a lot on my mind.”

 

He nods. There is a small smile pulling at his lips. His eyes are hazy, like he was so deep in thought when she arrived that he is still swimming to the surface.

 

She thinks about how trapped she feels by the ground after she’s been on the backs of her children. The world below closes around her once more and she feels the stability of soil beneath her feet like a cruel taunt; free for a moment, then you must return to reality. She thinks of how, despite this, a lifetime on the ground is worth it for an hour soaring above it.

 

She moves towards him. Her nightdress whispers against her legs. Her hair is entirely loose, and she wants to tuck the frontmost locks behind her ears, but doesn’t for fear of seeming infantile.

 

She is surprised, as she draws closer to her silent companion, to see him look a little alarmed. He rises from his seat, and backs away from her, shaking his head.

 

“How can I help you,  _ khaleesi _ ?”

 

_ What a question,  _ she thinks dryly.

 

“I’m not sure you can, yet.”

 

“Then may I ask why you are here?”

 

_ You know why I am here _ .

 

She feels dread pool in the bottom of her stomach as her worst fears swell and assemble before her; he is wary, he is distant, he is perhaps disgusted, he perhaps does not want her here.

 

She glances about the room. It is familiar to her, but only vaguely, and she cannot be certain it was the room he used to have, back before they left Meereen.  _ How much has changed, that I cannot remember being in here, that I cannot remember seeking comfort here, finding his space and making room for myself in it, that I didn’t deem it important enough to remember where he worked and read and thought and slept. _

 

There are not many possessions that would indicate a return to his old life, his pre-banishment life. It strikes her then that he doesn’t  _ have _ many possessions that she can place alongside him in her mind. He doesn’t have  _ stuff _ like she does,  _ things _ that must be moved from one residence to another. Everything important he carries with him; on his person or in his heart. Perhaps it is so he never feels permanent anywhere, and she thinks back to what Laz said, about his existence being ephemeral, about not planting anything so if he has to leave suddenly there would be no harvest to abandon.

 

He seems to come-to, finally aware of his surroundings, a little embarrassed by how cautious he looks, and she sees him straighten his spine, tilt his chin up, blink at her solidly through heavy blue eyes. The moonlight leeches colour from what it touches, and throws a solid, dark shadow under the jut of his jawline. Daenerys remembers the Dothraki adjective Doreah and Irri used when discussing  _ Jorah the Andal _ , and how Daenerys had struggled to translate it. She picked up the word again in other contexts; a horse, a kill, certain items of clothing, rivers but not flowers, boys but not girls, and sometimes children. She had wanted to ask, but some fear stopped her. Something in the tone of their voices, whispered when it was just the three of them and Daenerys, rarely spoken in the context of Jorah in front of other riders. It wasn’t until Doreah cooed it at Drogon one day in Xaro Xhoan Daxos’ palace that Daeneyrs realised what it meant.

 

_ ‘Zhehanok’;  _ similar to  _ ‘zheanae’ _ , a word the  _ khal _ had called her in the heavy months of pregnancy, and covered in blood from the horse’s heart. ‘Zheanae’ is ‘beautiful’, and used mostly for flattery or to describe aesthetically pleasing things. Its more masculine derivative means the same, but with strength interwoven. ‘Zhehanok’ is the closest word Dothraki has for ‘handsome’, but Dothraki rarely used it to describe men, since being good-looking was a low priority, and not important for male attractiveness. Boys used it to mock one-another; pretty features being associated with being delicate or avoiding fights. It was used to talk about good hunting, foreign clothes and jewellery, sometimes horses, apparently dragons, and Ser Jorah.

 

It was teasing in tone when her handmaids had said it, but it was true.  _ It still is true. _

 

She wonders if her handmaids had looked at the Westerosi knight in their midst, fair-haired and blue-eyed, with his well-proportioned face and lean strength, and wanted him. She wonders if they thought Daenerys wanted him. She wonders if anyone had had him, and if not, why not.

 

“The wine here is sweeter than in Westeros. I could ask for a cup to be brought to you. Warm and with honey, it is an effective sleep draught.”

 

He is talking. She makes herself listen.

 

“Thank you, but I don’t feel like sleeping at the moment.”

 

He nods. He swallows. He is against the wall, next to the open windows, as if wary of turning his back on her. His hands, until now folded behind him, move to rub his right wrist. She cannot tell if it is a nervous gesture or an injury from overworking his sword hand.

 

“Are you alright, ser? You are not sleeping either.”

 

He laughs quietly through his nose at her observation. He relaxes into the space a little more, takes a small step forward, so he doesn’t look backed up against the wall any longer.

 

“I am fine,  _ khaleesi _ .”

 

He always says that. It is such  _ work _ for him to just be honest. She feels a flare of annoyance at his need to coddle her, his need to push back his problems to make room for her at the front of his priorities. This is how a knight treats his queen, not how a man treats his friend.

 

‘I do not believe you. It is very late. You’re not even  _ in _ bed.”

 

“Neither are you.”

 

So she’ll have to take the first step, as usual. She supposes it is to be expected, considering their professional history.

 

“I cannot sleep. I feel... _ awake _ . I am thinking about what the prophet told me.”

 

He sighs. He relents. “I am too”, he says.

 

She wishes he would not look so... _ on edge _ . She wishes he would relax the straight line of his shoulders and come to her, take her in his arms, whisper into her hair, tell her that she is not alone in her fears, in her troubles, and that he knows he is not either. 

 

He is still afraid, she sees now. He is afraid of touching her as if she will set him on fire, or scold him, or perhaps laugh at him. Perhaps he is afraid of touching her because he does not know how he will be able to stop.

 

That is how she feels.

 

“What are you thinking about?” The words bubble up from her chest without her really bidding them. They float in the warm, charged air, low tones, smooth consonants, sultry without meaning to be. When she seduces someone, she slips into a persona she has competently crafted over years of using her body to get what she wants, but she resists the mold now. She isn’t  _ trying _ in that way. She doesn’t need to slip into a glamour, nor does she want to, but something in the night air breathes suggestion into the words.

 

Her tone has a noticeable effect. He swallows hard, his eyes glazed with panic. She wants him to answer honestly but she knows he will not.

 

“What do we do next?”

 

“Huh?” She says, ever so eloquently.

 

He smiles. “She spoke as if there is a fight coming, as if we have to do something to prevent catastrophe. Everything at the moment feels... _ stable _ . I was thinking about what it could be that she warned us is coming.”

 

“There is always something coming. Winter, perhaps. Peace is fleeting.”

 

He nods and looks back out of the window. It is unusual for him to take his eyes off her when they are alone in a room together. Finally, there is a breeze. It stirs his shirt, and its wide neck opens, showing his collarbone. It stirs her hair into her eyes. She at last tucks it behind her ear.

 

“Yes. I am trying to plan ahead, sense the next enemy before it appears.”

 

She chuckles lightly, cannot quite help herself lightening the mood...

 

“Then you will never sleep again, ser.”

 

“What were you thinking of,  _ khaleesi _ ?”

 

She decides to be honest. “Your role.”

 

He nods gravely. He looks almost disappointed in himself, like he wishes he hadn’t inconvenienced her by being caught up in it all.

 

“What do you make of it?”

 

“I don’t know. I wish someone would just give me a straight answer.”

 

He nods like he understands completely. “Fate is fate. If what the girl and our dreams tells us is true, there is nothing to be done. What will happen will happen, it will play out as their fire god expects it to, apparently.”

 

“Still, we worry.”

 

“Yes. Still we worry.”

 

_ Nothing we can do or nothing we should do? Nothing we  _ will _ do? _ She cannot decide anymore.

 

“Would you like to sit down?”

 

_ No _ , she thinks, but instead says nothing. She moves over to the window and sits on the ledge seat, folding her light skirts around her thighs, leaning her back against the cold stone of the wall. She chose the seat opposite where he was sitting when she had come in. As she wants him to, he returns to that spot.

 

This isn’t  _ quite _ how she wanted this excursion to go, but being in his quiet presence has soothed her rambling mind already. She looks across at his face, familiar and stoic -  _ zhehanok _ \- and smiles. She feels it, soft and vulnerable, shaping her lips.

 

The clatter of cartwheels on the cobbled street echoes faintly up to the window, and she turns to observe the city. The world moves around them. She feels a sudden tug of maternal instinct, within these familiar walls, and wonders where Drogon is. They haven’t seen him since the crossing.

 

She feels him watching her and meets his gaze. He doesn’t avert his eyes as she is used to him doing, but instead seems lost in thought, his brow furrowed, examining her. He looks like he wants to say something, but when he goes to speak, he thinks better of it. She wonders if he is in pain. She wonders if he is in turmoil.

 

He doesn’t look afraid now, however. He looks rather fierce in his contemplation, and she trembles despite herself. 

 

It’s his lack of caution that spurs her into rising, into moving, into standing over him and touching his cheek with her knuckles, drawing the backs of her fingers across his stubble. She hears him draw in a quick breath, and his look of concentration becomes one of warning.

 

“Are you afraid of me?” She says, the words forming before she is aware of it, slipping into the still air.

 

“I’d be a fool not to be.” He says softly.

 

“Even now?”

 

“Especially now.”

 

She rests her palm against his jaw, brushing her thumb across his lips, feeling his breath tremble. 

 

He stands suddenly. She steps back to let him walk away from her. He rolls down his shirt sleeves, ties the collar of his shirt shut, and does so with his back to her.

 

“ _ Khaleesi _ , you are tired.”

 

“Yes, I am.”

 

“You should go to bed.”

 

“I am not tired for lack of sleep.”

 

He sighs. He leans over the desk he stands before, his arms braced against its edge. He looks defeated. 

 

“Why are you doing this?”

 

She feels a rush of excitement. _He is talking about it!_ He cannot look at her, but he will drop the professional pretense in his exhaustion.

 

“Because it must be done.”

 

“It was just... _ Volantis _ …”

 

“Was it?”

 

“Freedom. That’s what you want.”

 

“I have freedom. I have had it all along. I was holding myself back, and nothing else. I realise that now. It wasn’t freedom...it  _ wasn’t freedom _ …”

 

“A different life, then.”

 

“Stop making excuses for yourself. You’re fooling no one. You’re too afraid to even look at me. Why are you backing yourself into a corner, Jorah?”

 

Perhaps at the accusation of cowardice, he forces himself to turn back around. She can see him gripping the desk still, knuckles white. He looks a little angry, a little upset, a little scared; everything she had expected. But his stoic countenance masks it well, as it always has, like small ripples on an otherwise still surface, hiding a whirlpool beneath.

 

He manages to speak, although the words force themselves between his teeth like he is trying to hold them back, or rather like he is pressing them through.

 

“You...have no idea…”

 

She feels her eyebrows pull together, a tug in the middle of her forehead. His honesty has knocked her onto the back foot, but it is what she wants, she realises, it is what she has been chasing for months and months.

 

“You do not know,  _ khaleesi _ .” He sounds resigned now, ashamed almost. “You do not know what it would be to lose you. I don’t believe anything would be worth that.”

 

She is incredulous. “You will not…. _ ’lose’ _ me.”

 

“I will. They all do. Everyone does. You cannot hold fire, or keep it from burning what it wants to...not without dousing it, anyway.”

 

His metaphor is apt, she decides, but that doesn’t stop her balking at it.

 

“I am not fire, Jorah, I am human. I am a woman.”

 

“You are a dragon.”

 

“I am both.”

 

“Aye. And I fall short.”

 

“You are biased. You do not get to decide that.”

 

“It isn’t a matter of opinion-”

 

“It is. And your opinion of yourself is far removed from reality, ser.” She’d laugh if her heart wasn’t pounding so, if it wouldn’t shatter the delicate thing he is showing her.

 

He lets himself look at her, then, properly, for what feels like the first time. His guard drops, his eyes burn, he takes in every inch of her like he is parched, like he may never see her again. She wonders what he is considering, and if all its complexities could be unravelled by just looking at her. She used to feel the weight of his gaze like a burden, like a problem she could ignore, but never quite shake, like something she was grateful for but also guilty of resenting. Now, it is blissfully welcome. She feels his adoration like a physical caress.

 

“I have always just wanted...to help you…”

 

“And you have.”

 

“I would never do anything that put you in danger.”

 

“I am not a child. I can make my own decisions.”

 

“Just because you are willful does not mean you are always wise.”

 

“You would speak to your queen that way?”

 

“Am I speaking to my queen now?”

 

His gaze is razor-sharp, slicing through her verbal contortion. He will not have her talk her way out of this.

 

“Do you think me so predictable then? As if you have scaled me down to my core attributes?”

 

“I think I know you better than most, yes.”

 

“And you cannot see how this is new? How there can be no precedent because it is unprecedented? Do you think I have poor self-control? Do you think I do not know what I risk?”

 

“I think you are passionate, and that has been your greatest asset, however it can occasionally cloud your judgement.”

 

“What, like with Daario? With Jon? In the Garden of Bones? In front of King’s Landing with a knife in my stomach?”

 

“And how do you feel about Daario now?”

 

She tightens her jaw. She blinks quickly, as if to reduce the time her eyelids cut him from her view.

 

“You know how I feel about Daario now.”

 

“And did it not once feel immediate? Desperate, even? Inevitable?”

 

_ Inevitable? Yes. Desperate? Perhaps. Immediate? Definitely.  _

 

_ Permanent? No. Like this? Never. _

 

“I thought after all this time, Jorah, you were stable ground, but even you move me. Do you believe I am persistent because you deny me? Because I want what I can’t have? Because nobody has ever said ‘no’ to me before?”

 

The words ring slightly true and she wonders for a moment if she has solved her own problem by sounding it out, before remembering that she is grateful for his ability to say no. Her enemies and her Hand are the only people that would deny her anything, except Jorah. Jorah would refuse her, if he thought it was what was best for her.

 

She watches him flush unexpectedly at the word ‘want’, as if it alone was confirmation enough of what they are discussing, once again refusing to name it lest it carry them away, or worse, manifest as something ugly and destructive.

 

His eyes are imploring, and she reads in them what he would never voice, for fear of hurting her with the truth;  _ a dragon is never satisfied. _

 

He expects to be another discarded corpse on the way to the Iron Throne. He has had no time to realign his view of her with what she is now; a lonely woman at the top of the world, seeking comfort where she always has and finding it changed. 

 

She stands in his room, without fully addressing why she is there, brimming with words she won’t say, itching and aching, straining to release the tension, feeling more awake than she has in years and still somehow _so_ _ tired _ .

 

“You are right. Your opinion of me has always been biased, but always astute as well. I suppose I must seem fickle, must seem hungry, dissatisfied and destructive, and in constant expectation of gratification. I cannot change the path that has brought me here. However, I see no purpose in this continued torture. Your self-hatred seems to have mellowed into bitterness. The past has shaped us, Jorah, but it is  _ the past _ .”

 

“I am trying to protect you, to protect  _ us _ -”

 

“How can that be?!” She feels her anger creep up her neck into her cheeks, she feels the thrashing in her stomach, the echoes of her ancestors, and tries to check her temper. “How can you claim heroism in this denial? How can you repress these feelings until they distill into poison and call it protection?”

 

She doesn’t even shout. The words steal like sliver in their pointed emotion. He stands tall; fire against ice.

 

“If nothing changes, nothing is lost.”

 

She almost laughs again. “Something  _ must _ change. How can you expect anyone to endure this?!”

 

“I’m enduring it.” He says, tightly, against a knot of feeling lodged in his throat. “I have endured it for years.”

 

The simplicity of the words strikes her back, and she feels her lungs quiver with her next breath.

 

He  _ has _ endured it, and would endure it indefinitely. Her change of heart would not cause one in him. He would be steadfast in his devotion to the point of martyrdom, and he hesitates now, she sees, because he never envisioned a future where he would be living, instead of enduring.

 

She sees this, and he sees that she sees.

 

It’s as if in admitting it, he accepts it. It’s as if, like releasing a breath he’d been holding for a decade, he sinks into forgiveness.

 

“What a mess we have made, my bear.” She says fondly. She sinks blindly onto the divan at the foot of his bed, lost in memories.

 

When she blinks, there are tears in her eyes. He sees them, and his core of good, his core of caring, wins over his obstinance.

 

In a few steps, slow enough to be uncertain but firm enough to be deliberate, he is sitting beside her. She surrenders her hand when he reaches for it.

 

His touch on her palm is distracting, the calluses of his fingers against her own so welcome that she has to concentrate on what he is saying.

 

“You mustn't think I scorn you or...I don’t know... _ distrust _ you or worse, turn from you out of disinterest.  _ Khaleesi _ , I - you…”

 

He struggles to voice his thoughts. Vulnerability does not come easily to him, and he seems to think what he wants to say doesn’t need saying.  _ He’s right _ , she thinks,  _ I know how he feels. I have known for years. _

 

Her need for closeness tugs at her again. Powerless to stop it, she moves without thinking, leaning into him, her chest against his shoulder, her cheek against his cheek, her nose brushing his jawline, her hand gripping his more fiercely. His sigh is shaking, she feels him swallow, he smells clean and familiar, of times long passed, of home, perhaps, definitely of friendship.

 

She cannot believe what she thought in the courtyard that day, when she realised she loved him. She cannot believe she thought it was less pressing, less immediate, less hot, less  _ physical _ than with Daario or Jon. It burns through her now, the need for him, the desire for closeness and completion, as if she is under a spell, as if her body has reset itself and all instincts call out for him.

 

“I am afraid, Daenerys.” He admits quietly. She feels the low timbre of his voice rumble through their connected skin, shaking in her heart. Her eyes flutter shut. She is relieved to hear him say it. She is relieved to hear him use her name.

 

“Me too.” She replies.

 

It is easy, then, to stay like that, to feel him breathing and find peace in his arms. It is easy to hold each other honestly. She slips her hand from his so she can touch his chin, the tendons in his neck, the line of his collarbone as she opens his shirt. His palm against her waist moves along the small of her back absentmindedly, she kisses the corner of his mouth in a gesture of reassurance, that even now feels like a thrill of something new. 

 

She is not touched much these days, as a general rule. When she first tasted power, it tasted like horsemeat and her  _ khal _ . Her touch was all she had, and from it grew her influence and her desire for conquest. She attributed her worth to her ability to take Drogo from wild to whimpering within minutes, and her body and her beauty were what offered her the opportunity of the title  _ khaleesi.  _ And then touch became a luxury, a release after a difficult day, scratching an itch and reminding herself that she would get what she wanted. She knew Daario didn’t side with her for her politics, not initially anyway, and it was an exercise in power as well as a pleasure she allowed herself.

 

Now she has everything, people don’t seem to touch her often. In order to lay your hands on the Queen, you better have a good reason. And now a touch is dangerous, a risk not worth running, a story waiting to be spread, a crack in her fortifications that she might show her enemies.

 

She moves to touch him more, almost incidentally, like a breeze that cannot help creating waves on a lake, turning his face to her so she can brush her nose against his, brush her lips against his mouth, her fingertips playing across his cheekbones, the heat of closeness stirring in her stomach. She feels orders rising in her throat, but will not voice them. She doesn’t need to, anyway; the hand still holding hers grips tighter, the pad of his thumb tracing each of her fingers like he is checking she is entirely there. His kiss is instinctual and dream-like, and it makes the tree in her ribcage sprout blossom, reaching its tendrils into her bloodstream, tickling her heart.

 

She is surprised to find his kiss tinged with a longing she thought he would have moved beyond. After many embraces she expected him to be more used to having her in his arms, but the bittersweet taste lingers, like he still cannot quite believe it.  _ I will make him believe it _ , she thinks.

 

The hunger grows with a vengeance, and when she moves into his lap he doesn’t stop her. His hands go to her hips, and hers to the opening of his shirt. His skin surprises her with its heat. She can feel the heave of his lungs beneath his breastbone, the racing of his heart. She tugs at the fabric until it gives way completely, needing to touch more of him, feeling his sharp intake of breath as she bites his lip, his grip tightening on her hips as he pulls her closer, the press of their bodies together like a balm to a sore.

 

She’s drunk on their history and the dizziness of the realising of its potential, pushing and pulling and biting and sighing, feeling the ache of it only get worse, feeling like the closer she gets, the more she  _ itches _ . His fingers slip through her hair, grasp the fabric of her skirt, hold her steady but it is not steadiness she chases. He is once more a storm under the surface, and she would rather drown in the tempest than wilt in safety. 

 

When she pushes her hips against his, feels him tense, feels him stop the sound in his throat, she knows him to be on a precipice. She is reluctant to part their lips but does for a moment to catch her breath, heart pounding, resting her forehead against his to avoid being pierced by blue eyes that have always seemed wiser than her, that always persuaded her to his way of thinking, eventually.

 

He wets his lips slowly, subtly, tasting her there still, perhaps. She sees a flash of him on his knees, his tongue the most tortuous of weapons. The heat flares up again, almost unbearable in its insistence. She feels her skin prickle and hum.

 

“Is this what you want?” She asks, because she realises she assumes his desires and yet still manages to be confused by them.

 

A shaking sigh dusting across her still-wet lips is the response. He looks down at where his hand still grasps the soft silk of her nightdress. He looks up into her face. His eyes are startlingly blue in the low light, and she is reminded with a jolt of Viserion, when he was taken by their enemy and turned against her. It was a strike to her chest, a knowledge that something so close holds such unquestionable power over her heart. Jorah will not turn on her, but his stare pierces her nevertheless.

 

“You are all I want.” He admits, softly, but without breaking eye contact. She shifts her hips forward to slot them together, closer, closer still, he sighs again, like it is painful, like it is already too much to bear.

 

The sentiment is simplistic, they both know, but somehow it fits. It is not new information, but it is said out loud, clearly, as an answer, as a... _ yes _ ?

 

She drags her nails up his chest, taking his face in her hands, tracing his cheekbones. He is  trapped by her knees as she straddles him, holding her where she is, his hand burning her thigh through the thin material of her skirt. The hand in her hair travels down her side to the small of her back, and she feels its path intensely. He no longer touches her cautiously, or like he must get his fill before she realises what she is doing and stops him. He touches her like he wants to, and like he finally knows that she wants him to as well.

 

“Then have me.” She says, against his lips, arching her body into his chest, closing her eyes. 

 

He waits for a minute, tense, almost pained. She can feel the power in his body, the strong, lean bulk of him, the history in his hands and magic in his veins. Her brave bear, who came back to her. Her greatest gift and oldest friend. He is her protector, as she is his, and the pleasure at the parts of his body she knows is only outstripped by the thrill of those she doesn’t. 

 

_ I bless every second of the journey, every agonising inch of it, since it brought us here, and so much stronger for having walked the road together. _

 

He breathes in, he trembles, he topples, he breathes out again.

 

She feels his surrender; somewhere in her gut, somewhere in the restless turning of her stomach. He lifts her, and she is kissing him again before she knows she has made the decision, seeking his tongue, winding them together. His bed is close, and then it is beneath her, sheets smelling of him, cold from being unoccupied. The air is getting colder too; it licks chilling paths down her body where her dress is pulled away, like ice against her flushed skin.

 

And from there it all  _ aches _ and sings and sweetens.

 

She had wanted to savour it, slowly and deliberately, but she’ll be the first to admit she loses her composure, and having waited for  _ so long _ she is tired. When they’ve stripped each other bare there is a moment where they just  _ look _ at each other, and the eyes of a lover reflecting her beauty back at her has never felt more personal, more poignant, more like an actual achievement than a quirk of birth. 

 

It is strange, she thinks, to be underneath, upon, within, surrounded by, a person you have known for so many years, to think you knew everything, and then to find something new to love. There is almost a religious fever with which they come together, a strange sense of wonder combined with a vague knowledge that this was always going to happen, given enough time spent, enough countries conquered, enough seas crossed. She could laugh and cry into his shoulder as they’re joined, perhaps she does, her emotions are violent and such a detail is hardly worth noting. His lips burn trails across her whole body, and when she bites his earlobe, he laughs beneath her, and the hunger becomes greed becomes gratitude. 

 

Even before she drifts off to sleep, in their usual arrangement of an embrace, only without clothing this time, she wants more. She feels her appetite for him only whetted, which causes dread and excitement to stir her blood. If she thought these feelings would leave her system after one night, she was sorely mistaken. She wants to know him inside out, she wants as much of him as he’ll give her, and in any way he will give it. She thinks of the feeling of familiarity when he was inside her, and she thought it meant she always knew this would happen, and retracts that thought. They were not always heading for this, he did not wait patiently for her to eventually look his way. Things change, and she would be a fool to not see that they have changed too. They are not the same as they were in the beginning, when he adored from a distance and she had better things to do, bigger things to worry about, other people to love. They have changed so much, but perhaps the reason they have reached this final euphoria is because they have changed together.

 

She kisses his closed eyelids and sees him smile before allowing herself to fall asleep.

  
  



	43. Chapter 43

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I come bearing updates. I'm so overwhelmed by the positive response to the last chapter. Every review I get lights a fire under my ass and I am SO GRATEFUL and happy to know you guys are still reading! I really hope you're all well, and in the mean time, have some more expositional fluff xxx

“How are you finding your lodgings?” Asks Lord Varys. He watches with idle interest as the man before him removes his hat, wrings it between his hands, tosses it onto the table, takes it up again, leans back in the cushioned chair, tugs at his left sleeve. He looks nervous, but he isn’t. He’s struggling with the expected formality of the Master of Whispers’ rooms, Varys can tell.

 

“I find it well, my lord. Not that I need anything fancy, I’ve not got a taste for finer things.”

 

“Anyone can adapt to such a taste, I assure you. And from what I hear, you have been very valuable to the Queen’s cause.”

 

The man laughs. The action reveals his general lack of teeth. His mismatched eyes wrinkle at the corners. 

 

“Not sure about that. I’ve never even seen her, but of course I serve her. I do my duty, my lord, that’s all.”

 

“Intentional or not, you have played a part in several important  _ negotiations _ on behalf of the Queen. For that you have her thanks.”

 

“I do?”

 

“Of course.”  _ Well, you have mine _ , thinks Varys.

 

“Well, that’s nice. I thought she was across the sea?”

 

Lord Varys nods. “Yes. She felt it prudent to visit her other subjects and assure they are still fully liberated.”

 

The man looks ambivalent. How fortunate Varys is to have key information so close at hand, and in the guise of such a simpleton. He is sick of swapping riddles with clever men. He will charm what he needs out of this one.

 

“I brought you here, Harlaw, not simply to congratulate you, but also to ask you a few questions. Is that alright with you?”

 

The man nods. His house sigil, a silver scythe, is not just embroidered poorly on the sleeve of his tunic, but is also pinned over his breastbone in the form of a shining new pin. He doesn’t know that Varys ordered the pin, nor had it delivered to him, but that’s good. He doesn’t want to come on too strongly.

 

“You served at the Siege of Pyke, am I correct? During the Greyjoy rebellion?”

 

“Aye. On the wrong side.” He laughs sardonically, and it is a jarringly bright reaction to what must be a whole host of unpleasant memories. 

 

“You survived anyhow, and now you serve the Queen?”

 

“Well, I still serve the Greyjoys, but they serve the Queen. Reckon our lady is sweet on her or something.”

 

Varys blinks.  _ Interesting _ .

 

“Wonderful. The intricate connections of house allegiances are what hold the Realm together, after all.”

 

“I suppose you’re right.”

 

“And during the siege you encountered Ser Jorah Mormont, correct?”

 

“More like looked at him from the mud.” He mutters, taking a sip of wine. A mottled colour rises in his cheeks; he is not used to the rich flavour of Southern wine, perhaps.

 

“Well, you’re on friendly enough terms now to be assigned to his personal guard, yes?”

 

“That’s not what he called it.”

 

“Of course not, he wouldn’t consider himself in need of protection and neither would the Queen. Rather, you were a member of his party when travelling North? And to Dorne during the princes’ uprising?”

 

“Yes. I was supposed to be going home, but I thought it’d be too damn cold. There’s more need of me down here, and after the takeover of King’s Landing I’ve been in the captains’ good graces. I was a sailor and a spare sword before, now I’ve travelled with the Lord Commander of the Queensguard. Not good enough to actually  _ be _ a goldcloak, but it’s enough for me.”

 

“Quite. You’re resourceful, I hear. And loyal.”

 

Grassan Harlaw narrows his eyes. “Thank you, my lord. Are you actually going to ask me any questions or just praise me and check your own information?”

 

Varys smiles, but doesn’t put much effort into making it look genuine. “Well, since all of my information seems to be correct, I shall get straight to it. I want to know about what happened when you travelled with Ser Jorah to Bear Island last year.”

 

“‘What happened’?”

 

“Yes.” 

 

The man’s face is drawn into what Varys eventually identifies as alarm.

 

“I am not accusing you of anything. As I said, we believe you to be loyal, and thank you for that loyalty. I am merely concerned; Ser Jonah is not one to complain and I believe his unwillingness to show weakness may work to his detriment.”

 

“He’s a good man, Ser Jorah.”

 

“Yes, I agree. I mean him no harm, I am just curious as to what he encountered on his travels. He has been so sparing with details, you see, and I’d rather set my mind at rest.”

 

“Well, if it’s details you want I don’t see why I shouldn’t tell you.” Says Grassan Harlaw, reaching for another plum. His visit to King’s Landing, on Varys’ request, has seen him fed and accommodated with noble treatment, and he seems to be getting used to it, not least understanding that he may as well reap the benefits of bribery.

 

“When you arrived at Bear Island, how did he react?”

 

Harlaw turns his food around in his mouth as he thinks, swallowing once he’s composed a response.

 

“He seemed...thoughtful. It wasn’t excitement, more like relief. He doesn’t let a lot show, that man. It was almost like he was in mourning, but he never has been particularly cheerful, so I can’t say for certain.”

 

“And his reaction to Lady Forrester?”

 

“Cold. Respectful. Wary. He didn’t try anything underhand, if that’s what you’re asking.”

 

“No, of course not. Ser Jorah isn’t one for trickery. When she offered her terms, did he think to marry her?”

 

“No. I actually suggested it, but he dismissed the idea pretty quickly.”

 

_ Interesting. _ “Why?”

 

“She wouldn’t have him, he wouldn’t have her, I don’t know. He didn’t want his home back  _ that _ much.”

 

“I see. And the Manderlys - “

 

“I didn’t go with him to White Harbour.”

 

“I was going to ask if he mentioned any marital intention before he arrived?”

 

“Nah, he didn’t say anything about either of the daughters. It was all about the Queen’s trade route - if he had an ulterior motive for going to White Harbour, he completely hid it from me.”

 

“No mention whatsoever? Not even a suggestion that he’d met one of the Manderly daughters before?”

 

“Has he?”

 

“I thought perhaps he might have in his youth.”

 

“Well, he never said anything. In case you haven’t noticed; he doesn’t say much.”

 

“I have noticed. We worry, you see, it wouldn’t do to have a man as important as Ser Jorah cracking under pressure he is reluctant to voice.”

 

The more humanitarian approach seems to work. Harlaw rocks back on his chair, cockier than before, assured of his own importance, as Varys intended. He himself stands, his hand in the folds of his robes, his thumb and forefinger running over the scrap of parchment he received the week before.

 

“I understand that. Northerners aren’t known for their charm or softness, after all. Mormont didn’t express anything that made me worry. He seemed determined, then calculating, then polite, then, I suppose, withdrawn, as if his mind was already somewhere else. The opinions he formed he kept mostly to himself. He held no contempt for the woman that took his home, nor any big emotional discovery on returning to his island. He didn’t mention the Manderly girls and when I left him at Winterfell, he spent most of the time on his own, reading or writing to the Queen.”

 

‘Writing to the Queen?”

 

“Aye. He got me to send a letter with a raven. I reckon he trusted me not to read it.”

 

“And did you?”

 

He looks offended. “Of course not.”  _ He is telling the truth _ , Varys thinks.

 

“You sent lots of these letters?”

 

“No. Only one, when we arrived at Winterfell. He could have sent more after I left, though.”

 

He didn’t. Varys knows this. The only letter Daenerys received from Ser Jorah himself was on his arrival at Winterfell, the one Harlaw sent. Why did he stop writing? Is it a coincidence that his lack of letters coincides almost exactly with the Queen’s abrupt change in mood?

 

“I have a detailed account of the trip from Ser Jorah himself, but I am worried he may have... _ failed to mention _ anything that he would consider a useless detail. He isn’t the one to judge that, you see.”

 

“Yeah, I see. I did worry about him a bit. If I was home for the first time after being banished, I’d do anything to take it back, and he doesn’t strike me as a coward. I suppose he doesn’t need that little scrap of land anymore, he’s the Lord Commander to the Queen. He has a nicer life here, maybe that’s why. Still, I thought it would upset him more, or he’d be happier to see the North again, or angry at the Starks for taking so much of the Prince’s time, but he was level-headed throughout, even when he was sick.”

 

_ Ah _ , Varys thinks,  _ at last _ .

 

“He...was taken ill?”

 

“Aye. Fever, and a bad one. The cold got to us all, a couple of our party died, and when the sickness got to Ser Jorah, we had to divert our course to a fishing village. Did he not tell you?”

 

“He spoke of the diversion, but claimed it was for those in his party who were unwell, not for his own health.”

 

“'Makes sense. He wouldn’t want to seem weak, or a burden; that isn’t the Mormont way.”

 

“What happened?” He tries not to sound too eager. He has learned over the years that people will more freely tell you the truth if they think you have a mild interest. Any less and they will fabricate to keep your attention, any more and they will taunt you with the upper hand.

 

“He was in bed for three days, delirious with fever, too weak to stand. Death was knocking, we got him to a healer just in time. The root worked on him, but a boy called Clarent died the following morning.”

 

_ Lucky _ , thinks Varys. A man of Ser Jorah’s age, against young Clarent from the Riverlands, a strong boy of 17, and it took him but let Ser Jorah go? He is stronger than he looks, but even so...more coincidences?

 

“Delirious how?”

 

“I don’t think he knew I was in the room most of the time. And I was. All of the time.”  _ Winning points in his favour or genuinely loyal? _ “He talked a bit, on day two, then was too weak to talk.”

 

“What did he say?”

 

“Lots of things. Most of it didn’t make sense. He mentioned a tent? And dragons. Lots of dragons, but I thought that wasn’t that unusual. He apologised a lot as well, just said ‘I’m sorry’ and ‘forgive me’ over and over again for hours. It was sad to hear it, actually. Then there was something about his skin and it falling off, I think he was seeing things by then. And bloodriders. He talked about bloodriders. I think that was pretty much all the specifics. Other than that it was just about the Queen.”

 

“The Queen?”

 

“Aye. ‘ _ Daenerys’ _ this and ‘ _ khaleesi _ ’ that. It’s like she was haunting him. Most of it was gibberish, the rest of it was apologies, promises of protection and the like. He said ‘home’ but I think he was talking about her home, not his.”

 

Varys’s fingers close around the note in his pocket, crumpling it thoroughly and yet so gently that no one watching him would notice.

 

“Concern for our monarch is natural. It is reassuring to know he thinks of her even as he is dying.”

 

“Fever-sick or love-sick I couldn’t tell.” Harlaw says, too brashly, too offhandedly, as he drains the rest of his wine. He wipes a dribble of it from his patchy stubble and looks to Varys as if to see if his answers have pleased him.

 

“Ser Jorah and the Queen have been good friends since her first marriage, since she was barely out of girlhood when they both had nothing. It is only natural that he should worry about her future wellbeing while on his supposed deathbed.”

 

The undercurrent of severity in his words must reach Harlaw. He coughs quietly into his fist and his eyes are less mirthful when he opens them again.

 

“Yeah, of course. Reckon that was it.”

 

He has all he needs. “Thank you for your information. It is good to know that our Lord Commander can overcome great emotional and physical hardships with barely a word of complaint. However, perhaps I should make sure a member of future excursion parties can perform the duties of a healer if required. You may return to the lodgings provided to you and leave when you see fit. I wish you all the best.”

 

“I thought I might wait until the Queen returns from Essos, see if Ser Jorah has any work for me.”

 

“As you wish. You may stay where I have put you, if that is the case.”

 

“Really?” He is shocked; not used to such accommodation.

 

“Of course. You are clearly a loyal servant to the Lord Commander and the Queen.”

 

“Yes, my lord. Of course.  _ Always _ .”

 

_ And you will be in my debt,  _ thinks Varys _. When Ser Jorah does return, it might be prudent to keep an even closer eye on his activities. _

 

He sees Harlaw out of his chambers and then returns to his desk. He unfurls the parchment and reads the encrypted words again, now with new, dangerous meaning.

 

_ “Mother of Dragons and her Lord Protector seen in disguise in East Volantis. They entered an alehouse and re-emerged after many hours. They were alone, unguarded and informal.” _

 

000

 

“And I, the Queen, am supposed to just... _ answer the summons _ of Tyrion Lannister?”

 

She gathers up her hair and twists it up on the top of her head. There are an assortment of pins on a shell tray before her, and she slides them in one by one to secure the knot. Jorah watches the stretch of her arms as she does this, without even consulting her reflection, tidying her locks out of the way.

 

“I don’t see why you should have to…” He begins, recovering himself.

 

“But? I sense a ‘but’ coming.”

 

“ _ But _ , he makes some good points. We have been in Meereen for almost two months. What more do you seek to accomplish?”

 

She twists her lips in a pout that is meant to be childish. He raises his eyebrows at her and the pout dissolves into a smirk. Her playful moods become her. His chest swells with affection once again.

 

“Do you want to leave?”

 

Meereen hadn’t held the most pleasant of memories for him. He had been spurned in favour of Daario Naharis, spent most of his time quelling uprisings, seen Daenerys turn to others for support for the first time, and ultimately had his treachery discovered and his banishment enforced. Now, however, Meereen sounds like singing, smells like Daenerys’ hair, means acceptance and relief and heat and fruition and -

 

_ Focus. Stop letting the past take over the present. _

 

Focus had been something difficult to come by as of late.

 

“We must, eventually,  _ khaleesi _ .”

 

She acknowledges this with a tilt of her head. They stand in the antechamber of her bathroom. With merely a glance over her shoulder, she disappears through an archway, knowing Jorah will follow.

 

Her own private bath house is already filled with steam. The sunken pool in the centre of the marble floor smells of rose oil. She moves to a bench, where a gown is waiting for her when she has finished. 

 

“I suppose we have been here longer than anticipated. Is Tyrion aware of what needed to be accomplished?”

 

“He has been informed of your work, and Daario’s advice, but it seems he thinks two months is long enough.”

 

“I suppose a country must not go without its monarch for too long.” She begins unlacing her gown. “I am surprised to find I... _ miss _ Westeros. I won’t deny I’m anxious to get back to the Red Keep. It is almost as if, if I’m not looking at it, I’ll lose it once more. Does that make sense?”

 

She’s sharing more and more of her thought process with him these days, and he makes a triumphant mental note every time. She shrugs off the outer layer of her garment, leaving her only in a silk slip of pale lilac. Even in her small clothes, she looks like a goddess. She is brash, and always has been, but he knows her too well now for this to work; she is trying to distract him.

 

“Yes, that does make sense. It is your home now.”

 

She locks eyes with him as she slips out of her small clothes. A brief flicker of worry crosses Jorah’s mind, but he doubts anyone would enter without Daenerys’ permission. With the exception of Missandei, and he doesn’t worry about discretion there.

 

She is watching him closely. Her violet eyes are dark again, an expression he doesn’t think he will ever be used to. He meets her gaze evenly. She can read him like a book, but he won’t be taunted when he’s trying to talk with her, however pleasant the teasing might be.

 

“I have enjoyed being here. It feels like I’ve dipped myself in Essos again. Maybe I’ll manage the cold better after this.”

 

“So...shall I set a departure date?”

 

A single coil of silver hair has escaped. It twists down by her ear, brushing her temple and cheekbone. He looks at that instead of her body, fearful of losing his process of thought.

 

“I suppose so. Next week, perhaps? That should be enough time to...see to everything thoroughly.” She says the words lightly but deliberately as she turns her back to him to descend the steps into the bath, moving slowly through the steaming water until she is waist-deep. The ivory of her skin blends with the concoction of salts and perfumes making the water murky and fragrant. She isn’t looking at him, but he is almost certain she can feel his eyes, following the curve of her spine, the line of her shoulders and swell of her hips. She trails her hand along the surface absentmindedly, and then turns to face him again.

 

“And no more stops? Just straight on the boat back to Westeros?”

 

“We will...uh, have to travel to the Orange Shore to meet our fleet, and then...stop over in Tyrosh for supplies. But otherwise, no formal visits, I shouldn’t think…” He manages.

 

She nods. Her smirk is back as he tries not to look at her bare chest. He congratulates himself for his valiance.

 

“Alright. Next week it shall be. We should organise a farewell banquet with some of the nobles, and representatives of the main industries, ideally ex-slaves. If any of the Astapor and Yunkai councils can get here in time, they should be invited as well.”

 

“Noted.” He nods. He scorns his treacherous complexion for flaring up a telling pink, heat high in his cheeks;  _ the steam, I’m sure it’s the steam _ . “If that is all,  _ khaleesi _ ...”

 

He keeps up his act mostly for himself. She wouldn’t mind if he eased up on the formalities, but he doesn’t want to risk getting too comfortable. Daenerys is changeable, and what’s more worrying is the threat from outside. He doesn’t want to relax so much in her presence that he calls her ‘darling’ in front of Tyrion, or in some scenario equally mortifying.

 

He bows. She laughs. 

 

“Leaving already? Are you bored of me, ser?”

 

He sighs. “Yes,  _ khaleesi _ , you are very tedious.” He says sarcastically. She bites on her lower lip, as if chewing on her own smile, as it spreads like a sunrise across her cheeks. She is not flushed from the atmosphere, literally or metaphorically. He is envious.

 

“Why don’t you join me?”

 

“It is the Queen’s bath, and I am not the Queen.”

 

“It is too large for just me. And as the Queen, I can rename it if that is what is bothering you.”

 

Amused, he fixes her with a look. “I have important duties to attend,  _ khaleesi _ .”

 

“What duty could you have to  _ attend _ to more important than me?”

 

He laughs a little at that. He has spent almost all of his free time with the Queen since their night together a fortnight previously. He has spent so little time in his own room that he almost thinks he should save the servants some work and tell them not to bother changing his sheets. This burning in him, the flame that turned from a spark to a blaze to an inferno at some point on the road to Vaes Dothrak, or the road to Meereen, has not been quenched even the slightest. If anything, knowing what it is like to have what he has wanted for years only makes it that much sweeter. One night would never be enough. Putting fact to the fantasy makes it harder to return to unreality.

 

He shifts his weight onto one hip, crossing his arms as if to hold himself together. “You are bold.” He says simply.

 

“One of my more useful traits, I’ve found.” 

 

“I have work to do.”

 

“You certainly do.”

 

“Oh, so this is an order, is it?”

 

Her smirk grows even more at his jests. She steps back from the stairs and sinks into the water further, its level crawling up her belly, over her breasts, lapping against her collarbone. For a moment she dips her chin in, so her mouth is underwater, but still smirking. She raises it out slightly to speak.

 

“Does it need to be?”

 

He’s never known desire like this. Lust was always a far-off concept, an irritating tug in his gut when his mind should be on other, greater matters. He has never been in a position to take what he wants, to relish it, to give and receive again and again and again. Neither of his marriages were particularly successful, and neither were backed by a flesh-deep yearning as he feels now. He’s surprised at his own appetite, but he is no animal, and he is rational before he is foolish. Those green days of licentious boyhood are behind him.

 

Still...she is not  _ ordering _ , she is suggesting...she is  _ asking _ …

 

He still cannot believe this is real, and he would be a fool not to seek out proof himself.

 

He sighs and puts his stack of papers down, slowly unbuckling his scabbard and watching her grin triumphantly from the bath.

 

000

 

The celebrations take it out of Jorah; he is on his feet at the Queen’s side for three days straight, standing in the sun, exchanging pleasantries with the nobles and passing up drink. It must be done, he considers. They will be on their way back after this. By the end of day three, he is almost too tired to stand, but at night when there is a faint knock on his door, he finds himself inexplicably enthused with a fresh burst of energy.

 

Then it is over, and Daario’s smile is genuine, if resigned, as he sees them off at the gate. They have left some Unsullied behind and taken on some new Meereenese men; their party swelling and shrinking and settling into a conspicuously large caravan. Daenerys bids a bittersweet farewell to the streets of her city, thinking perhaps she is unlikely to see it again in her lifetime. Daario kneels and kisses her hand for long enough to be considered personal, and she smiles sadly as he rises.

 

“My Queen.” He says simply. Jroah wonders if he has written to his sweetheart, if, against all odds, the offspring of a Tyroshi sellsword will end up ruling the Freed Cities.

 

“Thank you for all of your hard work, Daario.” Her words are heavy;  _ I knew I could trust you. _

 

“I wish you safe travels. Long may you reign.” He says with amusement. She laughs, still holding his hand loosely.

 

“Write to me.” He asks, under his breath, so no one but Daenerys and Jorah, standing over her shoulder, would have heard.

 

Her smile is smaller now, sadder. “I will.” She promises.

 

She steps back beside Jorah.

 

Daario grips Jorah’s forearm respectfully. Jorah grips back.  _ Camaraderie with Daario Naharis - perhaps it was always leading to this? _

 

Daenerys is watching them, he can feel her gaze. Daario’s grin is friendly.

 

“Look after her, Jorah the Andal. I wish you well.”

 

“And I you, Daario.”

 

Something must write itself across his face when he sees Daenerys smile at their exchange, because for a moment, Daario looks questioning, then his lips twist in surprise.

 

“It’s you, isn’t it?” He says quietly. Jorah is confused, but the mixture of pain, shock and amusement in Daario’s face fills in the blanks, and his eyes widen in panic.

 

Before he can ask him more questions, before he can deny it or even regain his composure, Daario has moved away to bid farewell to Grey Worm. Jorah recovers himself and rejoins Daenerys.

 

Once they are on their mounts, waiting for the signal to leave, Jorah looks back at Daario, silhouetted against the compact, fiersome outline of Meereen, its high walls and looming pyramid, and sees him smile wryly. Jorah still doesn’t understand, but the other man nods to him, lifts his hand in a wave, and disappears in the cloud of sand that the horses kick up,

 


End file.
